


Episkey

by Ridiculosity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Molly as a herbology professor, Professorlock, and Sherlock as a transfiguration professor, can i claim that this is anything other than wish fulfillment?, enjoy, i cannot, no, oh look its a harry potter au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity
Summary: Professor McGonagall's interdisciplinary papers program - one which would allow professors to work together for a more holistic study of magic - was an excellent idea. If - and only if - you didn't get saddled with the transfiguration professor, Sherlock Holmes. [Sherlolly, Professorlock AU]





	1. Specialis Revelio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLittleSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleSparrow/gifts), [InMollysWildestDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMollysWildestDreams/gifts), [HalfPastLate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfPastLate/gifts).



> I have no words except for the fact that I miss you guys and I miss Harry Potter.

_Specialis Revelio_

_Causes an object to show its hidden secrets or magical properties._

Professor McGonagall had it in for her, Molly decided. There was absolutely no _way_ interdisciplinary studies had become big enough for them to try and offer a joint paper. There was _no way._

Molly ignored the niggling sense of reason at the back of her head that told her that magic had many, _many_ blurring lines in these times. That Herbology and Transfiguration weren’t necessarily aspects that could be studied in isolation anymore. That of course, at least the sixth years needed a class which crossed the distinct categories the subjects were put in – especially with the relentless modernization that the wizarding world had been going through since the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

But there really _wasn’t_ a good reason for Professor McGonagall to saddle her with… _him._ She could have easily worked with the Charms professor, John Watson. Anyone – absolutely _anyone_ but him.

“Did she _say_ you have to work with him?” asked Mary as she brought some Pepperup potion for Molly’s cold.

“Yes,” sniffled Molly. “Why _him?”_

“He can’t be that bad,” said Mary with a frown. “John says he’s hard to manage and very temperamental, but not an awful person.”

Molly turned away. She didn’t know what to say to Mary about the small… amount of – _affection_ – she held for Professor Holmes. It was silly foolishness, compounded by the number of students who had raging hormones that surrounded her.

When Professor Holmes had come to the school, she hadn’t been able to think of anyone _less_ suited for the job. He was brash, angry – and quite _rude_ towards his students. The one thing that had redeemed him was his _extraordinary_ sharpness. She had read some of his academic papers and had been silently impressed. But she wasn’t _fourteen._ She didn’t simply – become infatuated with people who had an admirable grasp on the principles of animal transfiguration.

She found herself with growing admiration over the man. What had really cemented the issue for her was when Harry Potter had walked into the school and directly into his office.

Apparently – _apparently –_ he assisted the Auror office on cases that baffled them. This ridiculous agreement was possibly why she saw him so often with bruises and cuts in Mary’s office. She didn’t _care,_ particularly, about that – of course not.

Nobody knew that her first crush had been the private detective in Dorothy Sayer’s books: Peter Wimsey.

 _Not_ that it was _relevant._

“Cheer up,” said Mary. “You only have to work with him for three months.”

“That,” said Molly. “Is true.”

“Fragmentary sentences,” smiled Mary. “Should I be worried? You haven’t been this… off-kilter since Jim Moriarty.”

Molly blushed. “Well! That is _neither_ here nor _there._ He was a bit… _nuts_ – wasn’t he? Holmes is mad, but I wouldn’t categorise him as a psychopath. And _even_ if I – well, if I did – it’s completely irrelevant, since I wouldn’t go waltzing off with someone like that, would I? _”_

“You have a _thing_ for psychopaths, Molly Hooper,” said Mary clarified.

Molly glared. “The only thing I feel for Sherlock Holmes is intense _loathing._ He has no respect for his students! None.”

He also has sharp – _high –_ cheekbones. Not to mention those _blue_ eyes.

“Yet,” said Mary. “No one has ever complained about him.”

“That’s because he’s crafty,” dismissed Molly.

Mary hummed cheerfully. “Tell me when you both decide on what you’re teaching,” said Mary.

* * *

 

He arrived largely unannounced.

It wasn’t at all a _considerate_ thing to do, Molly thought savagely. In fact, it was quite a _wrong_ thing to do. And that too when she was humming to herself while cutting Mandrakes.

“Miss Hooper?” he said.

“Who is it?” she said, uncaring. Music was playing in her office while she dissected, so really, the world could go to hell.

“Fascinating though the Bent-Winged Snitches’ rendition of _Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_ is,” continued the voice curtly, “I’m afraid I would have your attention.”

Molly blinked. She turned around, keeping her scalpel down.

“Um – Mr Holmes,” she said stiffly.

“Good to meet you,” he said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite.

“I – erm, well, I sent you an owl,” said Molly with some asperity.

“I know. I decided to skip a step in the process and meet you directly.”

“Well,” she hesitated, “The thing is – I’m busy,” said Molly.

“I’m sure you have the time to set up a meeting.”

She paused, biting her lip. “How about tomorrow?” she asked. “Eight?”

“Sounds about right,” said Professor Holmes. “I’ll see you then.” He turned on his heel and walked off.

Of all the _insolent,_ mind-numbingly _entitled,_ complete _piss offs!_

Now she had to chase him to ask _where_ they wanted to meet.

* * *

 

Molly tried not to think about the extra effort she had put into her attire before giving it all up as a bad job and wearing her favourite, most comfortable, cherry red jumper. They met at Professor Holmes’ office because the horrible man convinced her that the warmth of the castle was preferable to the damp, cold world of the greenhouses that Molly seemed to never leave.

Molly _wanted_ to say that there was nothing cold _or_ damp about her office, but just as she had thought up a suitingly scathing reply, a pile of compost had fallen on her shoes.

The horrible man had smiled to himself.

So here she was, knocking on his office door. It _was_ warm, she conceded grudgingly. The Transfiguration floor was not the dungeons, where Irene’s office was. Irene’s office really _was_ cold.

“Good evening, Miss Hooper,” he said, opening the door.

“Evening,” she said simply.

“I’d offer you tea, but I know you already had some doughnuts on the way over,” he said.

“How did you know?” she asked, regretting the decision to ask almost immediately.

“The crumbs,” he said by way of explanation.

“Well, I would offer something,” she said. Molly wasn’t an awful person. She baked, and she liked making friends. Who knows? Maybe Mr Holmes was just irritating because of his good looks.

 _He’s not good looking,_ she told herself sternly.

“What?” he asked.

“Um,” she said. “I was baking today. So I brought some biscuits.”

He tilted his head at her, his interest piqued.

Molly felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“The irrelevant gesture of friendship is wholly unnecessary, Miss Hooper,” he said. “I don’t like doing this any more than you do. I do appreciate the biscuits, however. I like ginger cookies.”

She blinked. “You _don’t_ like doing this?” she asked.

“I prefer not to be saddled with someone else. Although, it is a relief you are not Professor Anderson.”

Anderson was the substitute teacher in Molly’s stead. She agreed with Professor Holmes, largely – Anderson was quite idiotic. But she had to defend him from this – this – this – _bothersome_ man.

“An admirable sentiment,” said Molly dryly. “I’m sure – erm – I’m sure I reciprocate, Holmes. So, what do you have in mind? Herbology and Transfiguration don’t exactly _match.”_

“I don’t have any opinions,” he shrugged. “I want to get this done with.”

Molly decided that there was no point beating around the bush. She cared about the children, and that was what she was here for. She squared her shoulders, brushing her hair behind, and decided to get through her speech without stumbling _too much._

“Professor Holmes,” she said plainly. “I don’t care for much else except for the fact that the children have to be considered. I don’t think we can throw together something without so much as a by-your-leave and give it to them.”

“Can’t we?” said Holmes, his eyebrows raised. “I was under the impression that the children have to be considered the least, what with most of them being absolute _dunderheads.”_

Molly went red. “No!” she said. “Come on, Holmes. We have to think of the children.”

“Isn’t this the paper that will be taught to the year James Potter is in?” asked Holmes, amused.

“What’s wrong with Potter?” asked Molly, her voice unreasonably high pitched.

“Nothing. His uncle owns the _Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes_. He hasn’t tried anything on you because he has a crush on you, Hooper.”

Molly bit her lip. She wrung her hands, and went quite, _quite_ tomato red.

“I did _not_ know that,” she said.

He grinned. “Deduction, Hooper. Deduction.”

“Well, you _aren’t_ much better!” said Molly, snapping. “You know that Alicia Reynolds has been holding a candle for you since her fifth year?’

“Of course I have,” said Holmes, rolling his eyes. “Jonathan Boot has been leaving you flowers every Valentine’s.”

Molly glared. “Why can’t people leave flowers for someone like – I dunno – Mary?”

“The general consensus is that Watson has her,” said Holmes. “There was a pool going among a few of the upperclassmen about it. I think James Potter has raked in quite a lot.”

“But – but – but, how?” asked Molly, despite herself. “And does that – well, does it – um – _really_ happen? People being interested in one couple enough to have a _pool_ running?”

“Apparently, Potter made the accurate assessment that neither of them would approach, despite knowing quite well what the other thought. And no, it rarely happens that people care that much. However, when it’s two teachers then people like Fred Weasley and James Potter do manage to persuade quite a few people to pitch in a couple of galleons.”

“That _boy,”_ said Molly. “Incorrigible.”

“Well, Hooper. Now that we are done with the school gossip, would you like to tell me what you had in mind? I can tell you had something in mind.”

Molly glared at him again, trying to increase the intensity. “I was thinking we’d do plants that can manage to disguise themselves and transfigure into looking like something else.”

“That makes sense,” said Holmes. “I had nothing more than plant transfigurations, which was a largely uncreative idea.”

Well, at least he knew when his ideas weren’t perfect.

“We could juxtapose the two!” said Molly enthusiastically. “It would make for an _amazing_ research subject.”

Holmes’ lips quirked, and Molly stared at her feet again. “That sounds good,” he said. His voice didn’t have a trace of humour. “Research would be needed.”

“Obviously.”

“The library? Eight in the morning on Saturday, I would say.”

“Oh – um. Yes,” said Molly, nodding vigorously.

*

Molly hummed to herself as she went to the library. “ _Some say, that dreams are a distant road,”_ she sang softly. “ _To where the heart would like to go.”_

“What are you singing?” he asked, curious. “A Muggle band?”

“Yes,” said Molly, taken aback. “Where did you even come from?”

“You play,” he said, with a cursory glance all over her. It made her feel warm. 

“Yes…” she said. “The piano.”

He tilted his head at her again. “Shall we, Miss Hooper?” he asked.

“Um – well, it should be - ‘Professor’ or ‘Hooper’, to you,” said Molly, annoyed.

Again, his lips quirked upwards very, _very_ little.

They settled themselves comfortably in the library, and Molly began to search. She dragged out multiple books.

“How about Gillyweed?” she said. “That’s a good one.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, without looking up from his own book. “Moonleaf?” he asked.

“Yes, that works,” said Molly. Her face lit up. “This is going to be so much fun!”

“You enjoy your research work that much?” he asked sardonically.

“Of course I do,” said Molly quickly. “And don’t pretend you don’t. I’ve read your papers.”

“You have?”

“Well, yes,” said Molly. “Can’t really help it. You pop up in every field. I’ve seen you referenced in at least two other major papers.”

“Ah,” he said. “I have had a similar experience with yours, though, so I suppose we can call it quits.”

“Have you?” asked Molly, surprised.

“Could we stop congratulating each other and get to the task at hand?” asked Holmes. “I don’t pretend to enjoy this any more than you do.”

And there it was. Instantly annoyed, Molly imagined stabbing him in the back.

* * *

 

Minerva McGonagall had seen a lot in her life, she did concede to that. Having lived through two wars, one heartbreak, a fallen career, an extremely successful second one, the death of Albus Dumbledore, the death of Voldemort, and the phenomenon that was Potter was quite enough for one lifetime, one would surmise.

Yet, people _insisted_ on irritating her.

“What is it, Miss Hooper?” she asked her voice iron.

“I can’t work with this man, Professor,” said the girl, throwing a black look at the man in question.

“And why,” asked Minerva, placing her fingers together in thought, “is that?”

“He’s moody, irresponsible, doesn’t turn up for appointments, and refuses to work with me unless I know complete _obscure_ information! On top of that, he insulted my profession!”

“There is nothing inherently stupid about what you do,” said Holmes. “It’s you that is quite stupid.”

Hooper glared at him.

“You both know what you are supposed to do?” asked Minerva in a dangerously low voice. Harry Potter, the hero of the new Wizarding world used to be afraid of her, and so help her God, Sherlock Holmes will learn to be afraid of her.

Neither of them said a word.

“I trust you are old enough to work together in a reasonable manner. If Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter can find it in them to work together, then I daresay you can do the same.”

*

“ _God,_ Holmes, what is _wrong_ with you!” exploded Molly.

“Absolutely _nothing,_ Hooper! Not if you count having _half a brain!”_

“You want to study Herbology within the domain of Transfiguration and your answer is to chemically _bomb_ my Greenhouse?”

“I was attempting to study the effects of acids on plans that cause transfigurations _within_ humans!” he defended.

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Look, Holmes, I don’t like doing this any more than you do, but we have to set some ground rules. Think of the _children!”_

He laughed humourlessly. “I don’t _care_ about the children.”

She wanted to be upset, but she really couldn’t. He looked distressingly good. “I _do._ So I am willing to compromise – I will set aside one room for you for experimentation, supply you with samples and equipment, if you will stop insulting my intelligence – I know you don’t _actually_ think I am like Anderson, and if you did, I might have to strangle myself with a venomous tentacula. You will be more agreeable, and we will work with a little more ease. Do you understand?”

He looked genuinely shocked by the generous terms she had set forth.

“And, we will occasionally work in the Greenhouses,” she added.

He rolled his eyes.

“Fine.”

* * *

 

He was an _irritatingly_ temperamental man.

Sometimes, he would pester her beyond belief over some new discovery. At other times, he couldn’t care less what Molly found, and what Molly didn’t. It drove her up a wall – she would be talking about something like the Chinese Chomping Cabbage (which was irrelevant to their research, she _knew,_ but _come on),_ and he’d nod along until she realised he wasn’t listening to a word.

“Um – Holmes, did you – did you even hear a word of what I said?” she asked.

“Not even the pauses,” said Holmes, ignoring her.

“Holmes!” she said, aggravated.

“Molly, people _choose_ to fill their heads with absolute nonsense, throughout their lives,” he said, once again, not even looking at her. “I choose not to maintain a record of things that I will never need. Divination, for instance. Claptrap has no place in my mind palace. Even Astronomy is not needed.”

Molly blinked. There were multiple things to register: one – he had called her Molly. Two, he didn’t know a thing about stars? Three – the Chinese Chomping Cabbage _was_ relevant to _her, dammit!_

“The Chinese Chomping Cabbage _is_ relevant to me, _dammit!”_ she said angrily.

He was looking at her curiously as if she had puzzled him with something.

“All knowledge is necessary,” she said primly.

“How many times have you used Divination?” he asked her succinctly.

“Oh, do be quiet,” she said. She paused. “You don’t bother keeping Astronomy?”

He returned to his book. “No, I don’t.”

“But – that’s – ” Molly struggled with her words.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

Molly loved the stars – she enjoyed Muggle Astronomy and Wizarding Astronomy. Her head spun when she considered the possibilities of the stars, the very conceptual existence of their being. Their light, dying – constantly, constantly, yet reaching her, every day. Forging a connection between herself and every single human that had looked at them, while they died.

But she couldn’t explain this to Holmes.

She bit her lip and concentrated on the third important aspect of his speech.

“Mind palace?” she asked.

“A memory method,” he said. “You create a geographical location to store information and memories in.”

“Theoretically, you forget nothing,” finished Molly.

He blinked. “Yes,” he said. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“You should think about the students, though, Holmes,” said Molly.

He snorted.

“You are _infuriating,”_ said Molly with a glare.

He grinned wolfishly.

* * *

 

“Bubotuber Pus,” Molly said, handing him a page.

It was very late into the night, and Sherlock was scribbling at top speed. She herself had got bundles and bundles of notes together. He snatched the paper out of her hand. She felt annoyed but intensely aroused by his dishevelled appearance.

They were in his office, working continuously and without breaks.

“Perhaps we should take a break,” she said cautiously.

“No,” he said.

“Well, I’d like one,” said Molly stubbornly.

He glared at her. “You are the one who is infuriating.”

“You haven’t eaten, Holmes,” she said evenly.

“It obstructs the process,” he said darkly.

“What, metabolism?” asked Molly. “You’ll find it’s also necessary for survival. Then again, I work mainly with dead organisms, so would I _really_ know?”

She leaned back on her chair. “Look, Holmes, I don’t like you or anything, but after putting in so much work, it would be a shame to have you die of your head exploding due to over work.” He opened his mouth to contradict this postulation of his death, and Molly said, “Don’t.”

They didn’t say anything for a minute.

“Let’s go through what we know, if you would like.”

He paused. He nodded perfunctorily.

She smiled. “So, we want to have one joint class a week to go over what we actually teach them, don’t we?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well – what – would you, um - what are we going to begin with?”

“We should introduce the paper. The students are idiotic enough without us giving them more encouragement in that direction.”

Molly laughed a small, _small_ amount. She straightened her face to give a summary of the paper:

“We’re studying the transformative properties in plants and supplementing it with a study of how much Transfiguration can replicate the same magic, and how it does so.”

“In essence.”

Molly grinned brightly. “The sixth years are going to _love_ it! I know that Bobby Sheffield has been begging me to do something along these lines.”

“You really care,” he said. “You really _truly_ care about your students.”

Molly looked affronted. “I do.”

He returned to his papers.

* * *

 

Their paper together started in earnest – they gave a lecture together to brief the students. Molly was surprised at how good he was at engaging the students – the girls watching him because he was _mesmerizing,_ and the boys listened to every word because being an assistant to solving crimes was something beyond _cool._ The admiration in the room radiated, and Molly honestly felt a little annoyed at the lack of attention given to her.

On the other hand, he also spoke _extremely_ well.

Holmes had a diction and command that Molly couldn’t replicate – she generally gave lectures with a lot less finesse. So, she would speak about her aspect with a lot less enthusiasm. She stuttered a lot as well – collecting her thought process over and over again. She also depended a lot more on student participation – which was where Holmes lacked. She wasn’t insecure enough to care about how much better his lecturing was, but she did admit hers paled in comparison.

“Any questions?” they completed together.

A few hands came up. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Molly elbowed him. This caused a small ripple in the class. Molly raised her eyebrows at the students.

James Potter grinned at her encouragingly.

“That will do,” she said firmly. “Yes, Rowan?”

“Professor, will the comparative study also include seasonal transformations? Some plants tend to change during full moons, or during certain times…”

“Of course,” said Molly easily. “You can make – well, as – _complicated -_ that is, _it –_ it as complicated and difficult as you want it to be. Or you can do what I suspect Fred Weasley is planning to do – erm, – slap it together last minute.”

Titters.

“You don’t know it yet, Professor,” said Fred Weasley, grinning very much like his cousin brother.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” said Molly. “But we do pick up – _certain_ – patterns while teaching a single year for more than six.”

More giggles.

“And while all that is fascinating,” drawled Holmes. “Class dismissed.”

The students left quickly, wrapping up their bags and books together.

“You have a good rapport with the students,” said Holmes, putting his papers together.

“They listen to you more,” said Molly, her fingers curling and uncurling as she snapped the clasp of her bag. “Your lecturing style is extremely enchanting.”

He continued to put his things together.

“Cheer up, Holmes,” said Molly, rolling her eyes. “I’ll be – um, out of your – out of your hair in no time. Maybe next time, you’ll get Watson to work with you. Or you would prefer someone from the obituary section of the newspaper?” as soon as she said that, Molly regretted it. But Holmes’ reactions surprised her.  

He snorted. “I think I prefer you over him. He writes perfect elegies, filled with action and adventure and _nonsense_ in his lectures.”

“Everyone likes his teaching,” said Molly. “Maybe they enjoy the action.”

“Diverting,” he said. “From the real matter.”

Molly grabbed her own bag. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

“John? Yes.”

“You should tell him.”

“I’ve _tried,”_ and he looked genuinely frustrated. “John disregards whatever I say because I’m not normal.”

Molly laughed. “I would agree.”  

* * *

 

 _The Three Broomsticks_ was packed, as usual. The booking had been an initiative on the part of Minerva McGonagall to encourage staff interaction. McGonagall’s position as the head of Hogwarts had had very interesting intermingling programs which Molly wholeheartedly disapproved of: it meant interaction.

She was watching Mary flirt shamelessly with John. She rolled her eyes when Mary laughed at one of his jokes.

“How much do you bet on them getting together by the end of the school year?” said a voice close to her ear.

Molly grinned. “You’re incorrigible, you know that, Irene?” she asked.

“Oh, hush,” said Irene. Her perfect lips were perfectly red. She looked breathtaking in black, and Molly smiled at her. “You and I both know that they’re idiots who have been stopping themselves because of their own egos.”

“Their _egos,”_ said Molly deliberately, “might continue – to be – well – preventive.”

Irene smiled at her easily.

“You don’t have as good a grasp on human nature, Molly Hooper,” she said.

“And you do?” Molly asked derisively.

“Of course I do,” said Irene. “Look at old sour face there –” she pointed at Mycroft Holmes. He was part of the Board of Directors, and had dropped in during the morning to speak to Professor McGonagall.

“Do you ever wonder whether that Auror Lestrade and he have a thing going?” she asked.

Molly batted Irene away.

“I bet twenty galleons on it,” said Irene.

“Mycroft Holmes seems very _determinedly_ asexual,” said Molly cautiously.

“ _You_ seem very _determinedly_ heterosexual,” countered Irene with a wink. Molly blushed red. “And you and I both know that’s not true.”

“Go away Irene,” she rolled her eyes.

 “What about him?” she asked, nodding towards the younger Holmes. “He’s one of my old flames.”

“You and Holmes were a thing?” asked Molly, surprised.

“Oh, he tried,” said Irene. “Or rather, I did.”

Molly felt a surge of heat as she acknowledged this. Sherlock Holmes _would_ be into someone like Irene Adler – beautiful, vivacious and absolutely _genius_ Irene.

“Holmes and I are working on a paper together,” said Molly primly.

“Oh, _yes,”_ said Irene. “I have Watson for that. How does it go?”

“Irritatingly.”

“Sounds like Sherlock.”

“He hates me,” said Molly, looking at her feet. “He doesn’t think much of me, in any case.”

Irene tilted her head to one side. “You might revise that notion,” said Irene.

“Why?” asked Molly.

“He’s coming towards you.”

And within a flash, she was gone. Molly had a minute to be surprised, or to compose herself. Instead of doing either, she chose to have a small anxiety attack and spilled her drink.

“Charming,” he said.

“What do you want, Holmes?” asked Molly, wiping her hands on a napkin.

“An escape from boredom.”

“With your mind?” scoffed Molly. “Perhaps by the next century we will find an adequate distraction for your mind, Holmes.”

He smiled. Molly was always surprised by how often he did that when she said things like that. It made her self conscious about her humour. Most of whatever she found funny was dreadfully _morbid._

“They seem so… _happy,”_ he said, as if disgusted.

“It’s not a foreign concept, you know,” said Molly, sipping her firewhisky.

He looked at her.

“I – well, see – look at it this way,” said Molly. “Some people get excited about drinking instead of – I dunno – murders, or a new theory in transfiguration.”

He looked away. “I don’t suppose you do?” he asked.

“Not really my thing,” confessed Molly. “I – don’t drink that much, and I feel very uncomfortable at parties.”

He nodded, in a way that suggested he already knew. Knowing him, he probably had deduced it.

“Oh, look,” said Holmes idly. “Watson has finally decided to act on his baser impulses.”

Molly looked over to John and Mary as they kissed.

“Oh,” said Molly happily. “That’s nice.”

Holmes shrugged. “Certainly better than some of the others. Sarah, in particular was one of the decent ones. Janet was _terrible.”_

“Need you be so cynical?”

“Patterns of romance always give away the –”

“Outcome, I know,” said Molly. “But _people –_ people can always surprise you.”

“Human life comes with a pattern, a trajectory. If studied hard enough, the future would be predictable.”

“Have you ever been able to?” asked Molly.

He raised his eyes at her.

“I’m not making fun of you,” said Molly, ruffled. “I’m sure on some level, you are right.”

“Really? And it doesn’t disconcert you?”

“It doesn’t matter whether we live predictably or whether it was a mathematical calculation or whether we were predestined on a path or coincidence set us going,” said Molly, looking distantly away.

Holmes didn’t say anything.

“Are you deducing?” she asked.

“I’m always deducing,” he sighed.

“What do we have tonight?” she asked.

“Rutherford is trying his best to conceal his relationship with Thurse.”

“Heavens. Doesn’t Thurse have a wife?”

“And Rutherford has a girlfriend,” added Holmes.

“Irene ought to have something to say about it,” said Molly absently. “She’s been eyeing Thurse’s wife since the beginning.”

“I always thought Adler’s taste was a lot more -” he searched for a word. “ _Tall.”_

Molly blushed. “You flatter yourself – um, don’t you?”

He smiled. “It was a useless distraction,” he told her crisply.

“That’s heartening,” she said, taking a delicate sip of her drink. “Perhaps – um, well, you – wouldn’t care for it much anyway.”

“Sentiment – is a useless chemical defect found on the losing side.”

Molly swilled her drink.

“Who are you fighting?” she asked.

She swallowed the rest of her drink. Tilted her head to regard him, and smiled. “Goodnight, Holmes.”


	2. Lumos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once their classes are in full swing, Molly's problem is no longer just Professor Holmes' antagonism towards her. Now, she has to face the more complex struggle of being his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry this took so long.
> 
> I don't quite know what to say to you, except for the fact that it's been a hard year where writing is concerned, for me. I'm so happy so many of you seemed so keen on the story, it really encouraged me. 
> 
> Especially HalfPastLate. Thank you so much.

_Allows the wand to become a source of light, by conjuring a small ball of fire. Used primarily for illumination._

* * *

 

“Good morning to you too,” she said as the class seated itself.

There were murmurs of good morning, and Fred Weasley winked at her cheekily. Molly rolled her eyes. “That is quite enough, Mr. Weasley. Please submit your assignments on the properties of Moonleaf as of now.”

Molly knew that some of her colleagues collected assignments through a flick of their wands, however, she didn’t feel quite comfortable doing that. It felt so _forced._

Everyone shuffled over to her desk and submitted the assignments. Fred Weasley seemed to have written it last night.

“Now, how far along are you with Professor Holmes?” she asked. “I suppose you ought to have finished your work with half formed animal transformations?”

“What does a half formed animal transformation look like?” asked Aubrey Downs.

“What do you think, Aubrey?” asked Molly. “It looks quite half human, I’ll have you know. Victor Krum used it for the second task in the Triwizard Tournament a long time back.”

There was a small discussion of appreciation.

“However, that is not our concern. You will have to find the properties in plants that mirror these transformations. One very interesting study is the effect of the moon, as well. Werewolves suffer transformation during the full moon – and, plants also transform and change through the cycle of the moon.”

She paused.

“But, we won’t be studying that today. Open your books to chapter twelve, please.”

The classroom rustled with the opening of books. 

* * *

 

She woke up in the morning, with a vivid image of her dream. Holmes had been involved, she knew. She was trying to write a paper, and he was telling her that the topic was quite stupid, when her paper turned into frogs. When she asked him what had happened, he said he had turned the research into frogs because it was useless. Professor McGonagall had entered her study, nodding with a lot more vigour than Molly deserved. She then gave her chocolate frogs to compensate for the loss, but for some reason, it wasn’t very compensate-y.

She rubbed her eyes.

She had become friends with Holmes – well, sort of. They worked a lot more comfortably. The silences were companiable, they worked quietly. He didn’t constantly insult her intelligence, and in turn, Molly supplied him with samples (she didn’t quite know what he tried to achieve with some of the experiments, yet, she did what she could to maintain them and keep them away from her students.)

She slipped off her bed, taking out clothes to get ready. Unlike most people, Molly preferred to shower in the mornings. The staff bathrooms were quite comfortable, each bedroom came with an attached bathroom – and an array of bathing options that Molly liked. She quite believed in baths, they were intimately relaxing. Today was not the day for bathing, however – she had to settle for a shower.

She entered one of the bathrooms, turned on the warm water, and drowned herself. Water had that ability – making you forget everything, believe in a world where nothing but water existed.

Baths were the _best._

Until they were interrupted.

Molly groaned as she heard the knock on the door. She put her dressing gown on and left the bathroom, trying to make sure she didn’t make the whole floor wet.

Holmes _swooped_ in.

“If you were about to die, would you use something as unreliable as muggle methods to off yourself?” he said, by way of greeting.

“Good morning to you too,” said Molly wryly.

“Morning,” said Holmes shortly. “Of course, if you were dying, why would you _want_ to off yourself?”

“Holmes,” said Molly patiently. “It is seven in the morning.”

“You don’t have classes till the afternoon, do you?” he asked.

“Yes. Hang on – how do _you_ know?” asked Molly.

“And anyway,” Holmes ploughed on, “If you wanted to off yourself, a hanging is the most painful of them all? If you wanted something peaceful, someone with the smallest amount of potions skills would be able to concoct a decent death potion.”

“Holmes – I – you – what on _earth_ are you on about?”

“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” asked Holmes, only just realizing she was there.

“Because – and listen to me when I say this – _it is seven in the morning.”_

“Attendance begins at eight, Molly, we must give it and leave at once.”

“What?” asked Molly, in a panicky voice. “Why?”

“Because there’s a murder to solve. Have you not been listening?”

“Holmes,” she said finally. “Not that I’m not – erm – very thrilled to see you in the morning – um. I – I – would – the thing is, I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh. Of course. The banalities,” said Holmes. “McGonnagal has given me permission to leave the school periodically to solve cases, as long as I don’t miss classes and finish everything on time. I am allowed one willing assistant. Congratulations, John is unwell. You may accompany me.”

Molly looked at him irately. Her arms were crossed, and her foot was angled outwards.

“What is it, what did I say, why do you look cross?” asked Holmes, genuinely befuddled.

Molly sighed. “I’m getting my coat, but you’re buying me breakfast.”

* * *

 

She regretted it instantly.

Holmes tended to do nothing normally, including eating while he was on a case. Not breakfast, hardly any lunch. If she didn’t have class after lunch, she wasn’t sure when she’d be back.

“What on earth did Sherlock make you do?” asked Mary, carefully nursing a strained ankle.

“Oh, we had to apprehend a murderer!” said Molly, her voice high and slightly hysterical. “Chase him down the alley. And guess _what,_ Mary? Holmes says my analysis of the poison and the anatomy of the body was _excellent._ Which means he will ask me _again.”_

“Are you _blushing?”_ asked Mary incredulously.

“What?” said Molly defensively. “ _No!”_

“You _are,”_ said Mary, slightly in awe. “It’s because he complimented you, isn’t it? You had _fun!”_

“I was perfectly miserable,” declared Molly loudly. “I’m red because of the exercise.”

“You’ve not been red for the last twenty minutes,” Mary countered.

“Allergies,” Molly said quickly.

“You’re not allergic to anything except peanuts.”

“ _Pollen.”_

“Now, even I know you’re lying,” grinned Mary broadly.

Molly sighed, her shoulders falling quickly. “I hate you,” she said. “This is _not_ becoming routine!”

* * *

 

It became routine.

“Hooper,” said Malfoy shortly as she entered.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly.

“Molly, I need you to check the Monday samples,” said Holmes, heading directly to the body.

“Sorry about this,” she said to Malfoy.

“Not a problem,” said Draco Malfoy, picking up a test tube and examining it in the light. “Potter said that he wanted this solved as soon as possible.”

Molly laughed. “I always thought – erm, that, you know – Harry Potter would be able to solve his – well, his – _own_ murders.”

“He’s perfectly capable, of course,” said Draco – and Molly saw his lips twitch in humour. She saw it frequently, but it was still interesting to spot it. “But he’s the head of the department now, and Weasley tells me the new crop of Aurors are rather fresh faced.”

“I can’t imagine Sherlock working with someone fresh faced,” muttered Molly, putting her gloves on. “When you say – when you say - ‘Weasley’…?”

“Percy. But I’m sure the other Weasleys are dying to have me as a dinner guest,” said Malfoy wryly.

Molly wrinkled her nose. “I’m sure they’ll have to have you _sometime._ Those three – Albus, Rose, Scorpius – they’re, well – irritatingly close.”

Draco smiled with that tiny bit of pride which was directed at his son.

“Anyway, what do we have today?” Molly said, changing the course of the conversation.

“Equipment is over there. Ask if you need anything,” said Malfoy, retreating into himself again.

Ever since John and Mary started dating, Molly became a more frequent companion on Holmes’ adventures. She loathed to admit that she found them fun.

Holmes really _was_ incorrigible. He got her a pass for the Mortuary at St. Mungo’s for consultations, and seemed to be a regular menace to the Healers over there. Draco Malfoy was, apparently, the only person in the Morgue who was willing to work with Holmes, which Molly found bizarre.

Meeting Draco Malfoy was… interesting. During school, Malfoy was a year below her, so she had virtually no contact with him. Luckily for her, she was able to leave the school before the Battle of Hogwarts. She had returned with Meena during the battle – and Malfoy had been a going name, the only family to not have been charged for their numerous war crimes. Molly had a fleeting memory of Draco Malfoy – of a rather subdued boy, who was quiet as she nursed him – and grateful when she would come on her rounds to read to the patients. He never said anything, but it was obvious that he was rather lonely.

The much older Malfoy was… different.

Draco Malfoy joked rather dryly. He was quiet, but in a rather steady, comfortable way. He was pretty decent company, if Molly was being honest. Besides, he had the patience to work with Holmes.

“You and Holmes,” said Malfoy. “How long have you been working together?”

“The beginning of the student year now,” she groaned. She began to mount the slides.

“Hm,” Malfoy stated.

“What?” asked Molly curiously.

“Nothing,” he said. “Hooper, try and get done by eight. I have to be home with my wife.”

Molly would ask him some other time.

* * *

 

“And if you haven’t been paying attention, do not bother to hand in anything that is half formed idiocy,” concluded Holmes at the end of their joint lecture.

Molly frowned at Holmes. “Do _not_ do that – unless you don’t want a grade. Submit _something_.”

“If you attempt something like that, send it exclusively to Professor Hooper.”

“Holmes, I swear to God,” said Molly. “ _Behave.”_

The class tittered.

“Any questions?” she concluded tiredly.

Fred Weasley raised his hand.

“Anyone who has nothing to ask about our romantic life,” said Holmes boredly.

“Holmes!” reprimanded Molly again.

“What?” asked Sherlock. “Molly, he _will_ ask you about –”

Molly glared.

“Fine,” sighed Holmes. “Weasley?”

“Professor Hooper, how are you doing that?” he asked, rather incredulously.

“What?” asked Molly.

“That – thing –” said Fred Weasley, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Molly quickly. “If no one has any other questions – for – um – obviously, the _topic_ we studied – class can be – erm, dismissed.”

Holmes turned on his heel as soon as the children shuffled out, and looked at her. “Do you think that Felicity Boot seemed rather pale?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Plus, the long sleeves – constantly keeping them far up, near her wrists. She’s not been sleeping, either. I would guess chronic nausea, from the weight loss.”

“I handled it,” Molly said. “I’ve asked McGonnagal – well, I thought it was ideal to speak to her – um, their head of house is _Watson –_ not that – not that Watson isn’t a good teacher!”

Sherlock waited patiently.

“He’s rather – um, tactless,” concluded Molly helplessly. “So – erm, I think – John and the Headmistress – are going to – well, to speak to her and try to get her to speak to the school counselor. I’m unsure if she wants us to write to her parents.”

Sherlock nodded perfunctorily. “Good. Are we meeting to study tonight?”

“Mm,” said Molly, in agreement.

* * *

 

“Meeting to study?” cackled Meena. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Molly beat her away with a thick book.

* * *

 

“Well, boys,” said James Potter, rubbing his palms. “Time to open that bookkeeping log, am I right?”

“I have five galleons on the end of the year,” said Kristy Brown immediately.

“Christmas, _minimum,”_ added someone else.

* * *

 

“Scalpel?” Holmes asked.

Molly handed it to him, without a word. She continued reading a trite Muggle fantasy.

“Why _do_ you read that nonsense?” he asked.

“Why do you classify tobacco ash?” said Molly, pushing her glasses up her nose. She got more comfortable in her chair, and didn’t look up at him.

“Tobacco ash classifications have practical use,” he said.

“Good for you,” said Molly. “Now hush.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his dissection.

* * *

 

The students had managed to come up with their final year projects, eventually. Some of the abstracts were rather excellent, despite Holmes sighing every time they sat down to check them. November faded into December, and with the Christmas Holidays coming close, Molly enlisted the help of her students to put all the creatures and plants to bed.

Molly loved Hogwarts during the winter.

While she was in university, she missed Hogwarts the most in the transition to winter. September found her with a heavy heart, and then the light would become colder, the sun just a little farther and closer at the same time. The air becomes tentative, ready to become cold at one word – the Scottish atmosphere settling on the turrets and towers, misting the windows. Shadows begin to hide behind the glass, the fog rolling into the grounds. The silver of the moon touches the castle sharply during the night, cutting through the cold air and demanding entry into the world of magic.

On the first day of the holidays, Molly sighed. The castle had been bathed in white for a while, but today she could enjoy it. She grinned, forgetting about bathing or getting read. She didn’t care much for robes as it is – her jeans were available on close hand, and her jumpers were warm.

She emerged from her quarters and disappeared downstairs, as the castle slept.

Everything became quiet during winters. The wind held its breath as Molly stepped on the grounds.

Before anyone could spot her, Molly laughed – heading to some of the more secluded corners of the grounds.

As soon as she was out of sight, she ran.

The small clearing at the edge of the lake was her favourite spot, since school and onwards. The ledge looked over the iced water, and the stone tended to avoid the cold sheet – making it a comfortable spot to sit in.

Molly’s cheeks were pink from exercise, her breath winded, and her heart bursting.

She laughed again. “Oh, goodness, it’s good to be here.”

It was one of those moments between time, where everything was frozen – waiting for her to say something – something important.

She sat down on the rock, staring at the patterns on the ice.

“Good morning,” came a voice from the trees.

Molly jumped back.

“Oh, _God,_ Holmes,” she said. “You terrified me.”

Sherlock was wearing his customary black robes, and he had a cloak – unlike Molly, who had opted for Muggle clothing.

“Apologies,” shrugged Sherlock. “I saw you walking on the grounds, deduced you might be heading here, based on your clothes and the direction you took – of course, I had to ask –”

“No!” said Molly loudly. “I am not going on any adventures with you today, Professor Holmes! I am _putting_ my foot down. I am _making_ eye contact. It’s achieving results.”

Sherlock smiled. “Are you being formidable?” he asked.

“It worked on John,” said Molly, forlorn.

“Muggle advertisements work on John,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

“What do you want, Holmes?” asked Molly, finally.

Sherlock Holmes walked closer, settling down next to her blue-jeans-ed bottom.

Molly’s lips twitched with a smile.

“I confess, I’m unsure why I followed you.”

Molly smiled in earnest.

“You’re laughing.”

“No, _no,”_ protested Molly, laughing. “I just – you know, Holmes, you with your – tobacco ash has practical purposes, coming down here.”

“Not entirely my fault,” said Holmes. “You were behaving strangely.”

“How so?” asked Molly, pressing her fingers into a nearby patch of snow.

“You were laughing – and you started running.”

“Brain like yours, I’m sure you were able to deduce the scene.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

Molly turned to look at him.

“You _couldn’t_ deduce it,” gasped Molly.

“Don’t gloat, Molly,” he ordered.

“I have _earned_ the right to gloat,” said Molly.

“Yes, alright. I was unsure of your motivations.”

“Oh, there you go again – having swallowed a dictionary. I sometimes – erm, well – come here when I’m alone, Holmes. There’s nothing particularly mysterious about it.”

He was looking at her funny. His impossible eyes were surveying her, and Molly felt slightly conscious.

“I – Hooper, there’s a leaf in your hair,” said Holmes briefly.

“Oh –” Molly searched her hair.

He reached for her hair, carefully picking out a leaf from it. Molly was sure her face was a little pinker than normal, but she didn’t say anything.

“Any plans for the holidays?” she asked with a forced cheeriness.

“Not particularly,” said Holmes. “John’s gone to visit his annoying sister.”

“Yeah, we might be the last two left in the castle,” said Molly. “Mary and Meena have left as well. Irene said goodbye yesterday.”

“You come here by yourself often?” he asked.

Molly nodded. “I was – well – you were in seventh year, I think. I was in my fourth year – no – um, third.”

“Then I was in my sixth year,” murmured Holmes.

“Yeah,” Molly nodded. “I was – um. I was a bit sad, as we are when we were all thirteen. I think – Billy Wiggins had called me _names_ or something. I don’t – well, the usual. I found this place – and I spent the night, in the freezing cold out here. Meena was driven _spare.”_ She chuckled.

“Muggleborn?” asked Holmes, driving a stick into the snow.

“Orphan. Tainted blood, most likely,” Molly said with a smile. “You?”

“Halfblood.”

“Your mother was the Magical Theorist, wasn’t she?” asked Molly.

Holmes nodded. “Adoptive parents?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose I ought to leave you,” said Holmes, getting up.

Molly watched him stand, feeling her face turn bright red. “Um – you can – you could – stay –”

“And do what?” asked Holmes, confused.

“Well – I was wondering – um, if you’d like – well, coffee?”

“Black, two sugars,” he rattled off. “Not at the moment. But whenever you return – I’ll join you in the greenhouses, there were some samples I had left.

And with that, he turned, leaving.

“Okay,” said Molly to his retreating back. She gathered her knees, burying her face in them.

* * *

 

The staff coach of the Hogwarts Express was a good place for the teachers to wish each other a Happy Christmas, discuss their students, and go their own way.

Irene Adler bet Mary Morstan ten galleons that something would happen over Christmas between Molly and Sherlock. Meena Prakash decided on ten galleons for Easter, since, as she says, “Molly can be irritatingly _angsty.”_

* * *

 

Christmas morning was always gorgeous.

Molly’s rooms were decorated with some paper chains, a few lights, and a small tree. She loved the way Professor Flitwick used to do them when she was in school, so she had decorated it with pretty golden bubbles.

She began with her presents. Her Mum’s was rather disappointing, but she was a bit of a disappointment to mother. Not that Molly didn’t have any use for a tea set, but it was a bit impractical when she was permanently employed in the castle.

Meena and Mary had gotten together to buy her some rather expensive books on Herbology that she had been eyeing. She was rather pleased with them.

Irene had been raunchy again – sending her lacey underwear. Molly rolled her eyes.

Holmes always found her during inopportune moments. When the door was knocked at, Molly rolled her eyes. “Just come in, Holmes,” she said.

Sherlock entered. He tilted his head at the racey underwear. “The Woman?”

“Obviously,” said Molly. “What’s up?”

“John told me to get you something for Christmas, because of everything I had been putting you through. I found that transparently insane, not to mention slightly bizarre – but I complied.”

“Oh,” said Molly, her voice becoming a bit high. “That’s really sweet, Sherlock. I got you something as well, but it’s in Greenhouse four.”

“Happy Christmas,” said Holmes, handing her a present. Molly smiled, turning a little red with pleasure. She flicked her hand for tea to start brewing over the fireplace. “Sit,” she added. Sherlock sat down.

Molly’s quarters were very close to the greenhouses. Her attached office was very close to her bedroom, and Molly had been intelligent enough to place a few armchairs near the fireplace to make the room cosy. She settled down next to Sherlock, clutching her present.

Molly carefully pulled out the spellotape, unfolding the wrapping paper one by one. Eventually, after layers of care – Tolkien’s _Lord of the Rings_ emerged.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered.

“I saw you checking it out of the library. I assumed you would want your own copy.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a little hoarse. “I’m afraid my present will be inadequate now.”

“What is it?” asked Sherlock, disinterestedly.

“Dried Bubotuber, for dissection,” she said. “And a few other things.”

Sherlock stood, at once. “Put your shoes on, Molly. It’s _Christmas!”_

* * *

 

It was far too close to Christmas to be doing this.

“Thank you _so much,_ Draco,” said Molly, rubbing her arms for a bit of warmth.

“Do you people _not_ take a break?” asked Malfoy. “I know I pay the school for my son’s education, but I don’t do it so that you spend your free time here, showing up at my workplace four days after Christmas.”

“I’m _sorry,”_ Molly nearly wailed. “Holmes – you know how he is –”

“Yes, _fine.”_

Malfoy entered the Morgue, making his way to the bodies.

“He said he’ll join us in a bit.”

Draco snorted in derision. “Mr. Walters, was it?” he asked.

“Cheery fellow, isn’t he?” said Molly.

Draco looked at her stonily.

“Tough crowd,” said Molly. “I just – need to run some tests on his skin and hair.”

“Knock yourself out. I’ll help you – only because I want this over with.”

“You are the _best,”_ muttered Molly gratefully.

Molly put on her gloves, depending on Draco to manage the skin cell samples. Draco took a swab of cotton, while Molly plucked a few hair.

“What on earth is Holmes on about this time?” asked Draco.

“Sherlock said something about the potion leaving traces of calcium and potassium on the hair and skin, if he has deduced the right potion. I have to run a blood panel, as well.”

“I hate that man,” muttered Draco.

“Join the club.”

Draco snorted again, just as derisively as before.

“What?” asked Molly.

“Oh, _nothing.”_

Molly took off her rubber gloves, putting her samples on a tray and dragging it away with her. She rubbed her eyes, pushing her hair back in frustration, and turned to him.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“I’m sure you can. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“You won’t – you’re not Mary – or Meena – or Irene. You won’t – you won’t make a big deal, right? I can have an honest conversation, right?”

“I highly doubt it, but I support the dream.”

“Draco – I’m serious!” said Molly. “I have a bit of a secret, here.”

Draco faced her, waiting.

“I have – I have a bit of a crush on – well, Sherlock.”

Draco paused. “I’m sorry, is this the secret? This is what I am expected to take to the grave?”

“ _Yes!”_ said Molly emphatically.

“Molly,” said Draco patiently. “Believe me when I say this – I am not trying to insult your intelligence, or your subtlety when I tell you that _everyone_ knows.”

“What?” asked Molly. “No, they don’t!”

“At least you’re better at hiding it,” he said.

“Who else is hiding anything?” asked Molly, confused.

Draco looked at her long and hard. “I know you were top of your class in university. You are not a stupid person. You know who I am talking about.”

Molly blinked in befuddlement.

“ _Holmes_ , Molly! He’s _terrible_ at hiding it.”

Molly laughed openly. “Sherlock has nothing to hide. He doesn’t feel anything for me.”

Draco looked upwards – his arms gripping the table, while he bent forward, shaking his head in perplexity. When he looked up, he looked rather – well, rather young. As if they were in school, bonding over… _gossip_. Which was ridiculous, Molly and Draco would never be in the same circles in school.

“Merlin, give me patience. Molly – Holmes is far more obvious than you are.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, fine. Be that way. Did you know there’s a betting ring around when you both get together?” asked Draco.

“ _What?”_

“Scorpius told me. Apparently, the upperclassmen – lead by James Potter, I don’t doubt – have a few bets running.”

It was in this moment that Sherlock entered the morgue. Molly jumped a mile, nearly dropping a slide.

“Don’t be careless, Molly,” said Sherlock. “You aren’t wearing gloves, either. It’s cold, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Um,” said Molly.

“Borrow mine,” he added. “I have large pockets.”

Draco raised his eyebrows at her. Molly’s eyes couldn’t shift from her shoes, out of sheer embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all kinds of reviews!!


	3. Protego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI ALL, REAL SORRY AGAIN, ALTHOUGH I SHOULD JUST STOP APOLOGISING AND PUT A COLLECTIVE APOLOGY ON ALL MY FICS. 
> 
> Okay, so the reason this got delayed is that since it took me a year to update the last chapter, I'd lost a lot of my enchantment for this fic - so I decided to write two chapters before publishing. AND YES, this is now going to be a five chapter fic!! Let's hope it sticks to five chapters. 
> 
> AND HELLS YEAH, I WROTE THE NEXT CHAPTER AS WELL. IT'S GONNA BE UPDATED BY NEXT WEEK.

_Creates a protective shield over the intended target._

* * *

 

The New Year vanished within minutes, while Molly watched the clock in her office. She cared little for celebration, and she preferred the quiet of the office over the staff party. In particular, it seemed that half the staff was on holiday. She didn’t care to spend any time with Anderson, and even lesser with Professor Trelawney. She didn’t want predictions of death. In contrast to Trelawney, she had visited Hagrid during the evening. At the moment, she was rather comfortable in her office.

Molly hadn’t begun working at Hogwarts a long time back. She’d joined only three years back.

Professor Longbottom – pioneer of the field, with some of most amazing work on evolution within magical plants, and a bit of a hero for Molly – had left to teach at the university level. Molly had joined because Mary – the Charms teacher was an old friend of hers from University, and Meena – the potions professor and her childhood friend – had promised her that school level teaching wasn’t as bad as it sounded.  

Molly had been a professor at the university level for a while. It had let her write all those papers, particularly since the morgue did not have half the resources the university did.

It was not that the morgue itself had poor resources, it just seemed that Wizardry had not evolved their understanding of crime with the way the world worked. With their increasingly enmeshed worlds, crimes became more sophisticated – hardly ever was an _avada kedavra_ used anymore. Even Draco, while he was the only Healer who worked with Sherlock – and was frequently found in the morgue, was not technically assigned to the morgue.

The clock was stuck at ten minutes past twelve.

She wished at times, that she was alone even while she was by herself. She didn’t know why this sense of exhaustion would overcome her at times, but it seemed to – at the most inopportune moments.

Sherlock had been around more frequently, especially since John was gone. Molly missed Mary and Meena. She even missed Irene.

She found it hard to be around Sherlock at the moment – he had no concept of personal space, or of her feelings. Her heart felt raw.

At times, in moments like this – tears tended to leak from her eyes. She wasn’t a terrible crier, but she did it regularly. New Year and Christmas was hard that way – she missed people, she missed some of her home, she even missed Ireland. She missed some of herself.

The clock struck twelve.

“Happy new year, Molly,” she said to herself.

* * *

January wrapped itself in snow, over and over again. A bright, impossible whiteness gathered over everything that January was.

Molly spent time in the snow, as the children started to return from their homes – bags stacked with sweets and chocolates from Christmas. Endless sandwiches of turkey stuffing, and god alone knows what else. Molly’s eyes raked the skies as the carriages crossed the lakes. She loved the way thestrals looked by the moonlight – their skeletal frames, slightly terrifying.

Right now, in the bright sunlight, the thestrals must be terrifying to anyone watching. Almost monstrous – yet Molly would still say, they were beautiful.

“Miss Hooper?” came a questioning voice.

Molly turned from the lake. Her knees were gathered close to her, her shoes slightly buried in the snow. “Hello,” she said to the Divination professor, Firenze.

“I often find you here,” he said quietly. He made no move to sit next to her, and Molly didn’t bother asking.

“I hope I don’t disturb you,” she said apologetically.

“You don’t,” said Firenze evenly. “I only interrupted to ask you if you were planning a trip to the forest in the future.”

Molly smiled, but made no move to joke about being able to see the future. Not only was Firenze terribly literal, he would immediately be able to show her where her position was in the universe since her little decisions made no change to the stars. “Perhaps, towards the end of January,” she said.

“Very well. I shall let the remaining centaurs know,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Molly. “I hope your interdisciplinary paper is going well.”

“Divination, should, ideally work with all the different practices of magic,” said the centaur. “It is not hard to work with the Astronomy Professor, however, it could be done with Charms, or Transfiguration.”

Molly snorted. “I bet Professor Holmes would love that.”

Firenze gave her a wry smile. “Most of the subjects find it hard to accommodate me, or my language. It is hard to teach, when your words are transgressors.”

Molly looked away. “Meena says the same.”

“Human relations are none of my concern,” said Firenze quietly. “That being said, I would agree with most of what Professor Prakash says. I should be off, Molly Hooper. Good afternoon to you.”

Molly nodded. “Bye.”

* * *

 

“Please submit all your abstracts today itself!” Molly called over the hubbub of the class. The students slowly buzzed the conversation until it faded completely. “Professor Holmes and I will be – well, we will be editing them and reworking them by next week, after which, you can - um – rewrite your abstracts and begin with your studies – erm – depending – depending on how much we think your proposal would be possible. Any questions?”

At once, two hands went up.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” asked Molly.

“When do we have to finish our papers?”

“Ideally, by February have a first draft,” said Molly. “Miss Webber?”

“Ma’am, would it be okay if I started working immediately? Only my experiment requires time…”

“Yes, I will write you a pass for the Greenhouses, you may come here whenever you need – provided you log in,” Molly said. “Now, can we begin with today’s lesson?”

*

Holmes entered the greenhouse once she was done. “Good _lord,_ do we have to check the abstracts this weekend?” he asked.

“ _Sherlock,”_ Molly said crossly.

Holmes didn’t look at her directly. “Hooper, I’m joining you when you go to the Forbidden Forest.”

Molly didn’t even look up from her paper, as she stacked the abstracts neatly. “Why am I not surprised that you know?” she asked.

“I have an interest in some of the flora and fauna,” he said.

“And I have an agreement with the centaurs,” said Molly. “You do _not.”_

“Irrelevant. I shall be able to enter, I have a relationship with Bane.”

“Bane _hates_ people like you,” said Molly, shocked.

“I am aware. Which makes it obvious that he is me,” said Holmes, with his trademark smirk. “Do not worry about permissions and the centaurs. When were you planning to go?”

“Next to next weekend, morning.”

Sherlock looked rather irritatingly smug at having had his way. “Excellent.”

* * *

 

“Molly,” greeted Draco, without looking up from his paperwork. “If you’re here for those samples, they’re lying on table two.”

“Oh – thanks,” said Molly, breathlessly. She took off her scarf, draping it across a chair. “I’m sorry we ruined your New Year. Or the twenty ninth of December, rather.”

“Its fine, Hooper,” said Malfoy.

“But – um – I also have something to ask you,” Molly said sheepishly. “That thing you said about Sherlock –”

“Oh, _heaven_ help me,” muttered Draco.

“No – I don’t – we’re not going to sit and gossip, as if we’re fourth years by the lake.”

“Are you sure? You sound _terribly_ like Tracey Davis at the moment.”

“Oh come _on,_ Draco.”

“Hooper, _what_ do you want me to say?” sighed Draco.

“You’re the only person I can talk to, okay?” said Molly. She felt rather vulnerable at the moment – particularly since her confidant was fucking Draco _Malfoy._ “I – I don’t know what to make of – everything. I _hate_ my crush on him, particularly when he doesn’t give me the time of the day.”

“Tragic,” deadpanned Draco.

“Listen – just – explain _why_ you think – the thing – you said, about Sherlock.”

“Molly,” said Draco slowly. “You don’t have some inferiority complex, do you?”

“No – I mean – I’m awkward, but I’m _fine,”_ said Molly. “No complexes of any sort. I just – find it hard to wrap my head around. He’s never given any indication – he once called me John during our class sessions, which was embarrassing. He finds me only for science experiments, or when John is missing -”

“What did I do in my life to deserve this conversation?” Draco said, his eyes raised upward. He paused. “Maybe this is a male thing,” he added, in a slightly conciliatory tone.

“What?”

“I always assumed women were more intuitive about this – cry sexism all you want, Hooper, I grew up in an extremely conservative family – but it might be that Holmes’ signals are something men notice.”

“Is it?” asked Molly, interestedly.

“Then again, it’s hard to ignore him staring at you for five minutes while you perform spells on skin samples,” said Draco coldly.

Molly went pink. “No, he was staring at the spells I was doing.”

“Don’t be deliberately thick,” said Draco, returning to his paperwork.

Molly tapped her fingers nervously on table two.

“Molly,” said Draco warningly.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Do you _always_ get this anxious when you’re confronted with possible romantic happiness?”

“I’m _sorry,”_ she nearly wailed. “Sherlock makes me nervous, and then when I’m nervous, I start overthinking – when I overthink, I can’t breathe – and then I start seeing spots, like I’m doing now -”

“Merlin’s beard,” swore Draco, getting up and striding towards her. He made her sit down on one of the stools as Molly began to breathe evenly. “And I thought Weasley had it bad in sixth year.”

“What?” asked Molly, confused and still breathing heavily, “Wasn’t he dating Brown in his sixth year? I was in seventh year, I remember.”

“Yes. I’m surprised you remember that,” said Draco. He left her at the stool, ignored his paperwork and headed to table one. “But you’d have to be an idiot to not notice Granger pining in the corner, and then Weasley is unusually muttonheaded for someone married to Granger.”

“Oh _God –_ we are in fourth year, aren’t we? Gossiping about the people we know –”

Draco didn’t say anything, but he looked rather caught off-guard. He picked up fresh flobberworms – she assumed for the small potion bubbling in the corner.

“Look, Hooper, I patently don’t care about this situation. That’s perhaps why you should trust my judgment more.”

Which was a rather valid argument, so Molly couldn’t counter it too much. “It’s just –“ Molly struggled. “He called me _John_ once - he doesn’t seem to pay attention to me, not even a little – and I have never seen him care two whits about whether or not I am around him. Besides which – he doesn’t seem to _like_ romance very much.”

“Aren’t you friends?” asked Draco, carefully chopping up some of his flobberworm.

“I – I mean, I suppose. I don’t – he’s too _confusing.”_

“I’m sure,” said Draco, throwing the flobberworm pieces into his potion.

“And now we have to go to the Forbidden Forest together,” groaned Molly. “How am I supposed to take it? _Why_ did he have to want to go with me?”

Draco looked up. “You’ll be spending time with him, alone, for a while – and _he_ was the one who suggested it?”

Molly nodded, preoccupied.

“Yeah, I don’t see _why_ anyone thinks there might be something going on,” said Draco sarcastically. The flobberworm bubbled in the potion with finality.

* * *

 

The fire burned in Holmes’ office. It was rather an eccentric one, Molly felt – but it rather fit him. He had a tiny lab in the corner, where she was very certain that a small Hinkypunk was stored against his will. There was a yellow coloured smiley painted on one of the walls, and Molly was extremely unsure of _why._ The foeglass was intimidating, but she ignored it.

“God knows what Davies is working on,” said Holmes.

“He seems to be a bit lost,” Molly said.

“Don’t be needlessly kind.”

Molly glared at him.

“Oh – I’m done with Weasley,” she said, putting the paper on Sherlock’s pile.

“Which one?” asked Holmes sarcastically.

“Hilarious, Holmes,” said Molly. “Just go through it. I think some points haven’t been explained – but overall, a decent abstract for a sixth year.”

“’ _The Properties of Moonflower in a Transformative Capacity.’_ Goodness, Potter is being ambitious.”

“It’s not _bad,_ however. And the designed experiment is fairly sophisticated,” said Molly.

“You find all their efforts sophisticated,” snorted Holmes. “He must have worked hard for you,” he added quietly.

“Yeah, sure,” said Molly derisively.

“Potter hardly ever puts in effort for me, so the logical deduction –”

“Is that he has started caring about Herbology and Transfiguration.”

“Fool yourself a while longer, Hooper.”

* * *

 

The forest loomed overhead. A couple of crows cawed overhead. Molly looked up, an involuntary shudder running down her back. The snow on the ground seemed to have no intention of melting – and she was unsure if it ever was planning to. The trees fluttered gently, the periodic gust of small wind freezing the tips of the branches – if they weren’t already half dead.

She heard the crunch of snow – as someone stepped on it, purposefully.

“Morning,” said Holmes.

“Hi,” she said. “If you’re expecting to find something particularly exciting –”

Holmes snorted. “Hardly.”

“Good. Now be quiet – I don’t want to run out of luck with the centaurs.”

Molly glanced upwards as she walked. Her eyes turned up almost constantly when she was in Hogwarts – she could never look away from the wind. When the tops of trees rustled Molly was filled with an overwhelming longing, one that she could neither quantify nor satisfy.

“What are we looking for?”

“Moonflowers,” Molly said, stepping over a log. “Bowtruckle. Wand wood. You?”

“Something not boring,” said Holmes. “Anything would do.”

“Academic block?” asked Molly sympathetically.

“In a way,” said Holmes. “Case block.”

“Oh,” said Molly. “I play the piano to help,” she added.

“I tried that,” said Holmes, sounding genuinely frustrated.

“You play?” asked Molly.

“Violin,” he said succinctly.

She glanced upwards again.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asked.

“What?” asked Molly, confused.

“You look upwards, smile, walk further, fiddle with your hair, and then look upward again.”

Molly fingered her hair. “Um. Well. I like the sky. I like it best when trees frame it.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He probably found her a touch sentimental. “I know it’s silly,” she added. “But trees always sound so much like the ocean when the wind’s around.”

He didn’t say anything still. Molly turned away quietly.

* * *

 

The morning went by in slips; the leaves of the trees murmured as it went by, speaking seconds into the wind. Molly and Sherlock found some of what they were looking for, a lot of what they were not, and Sherlock seemed thrilled at the possibilities a thestral carcass offered. Molly told him to hurry up in his collection of eye-liquid, because much as Sherlock would like to harvest all the goddamn organs, Hagrid was probably preparing a funeral with a daisy filled flower arrangement as they spoke.

Sherlock snorted when she said that, and continued to attack the corpse for whatever he could find.

“I didn’t know you could see them,” he added.

“I didn’t know you could either,” Molly said. “It’s a bit limiting for sciencing, creatures some people can’t see. Not to mention only be seen by _death_ itself.”

Either she was imagining it, or Sherlock was smiling a little. “I don’t think ‘sciencing’ is a word,” he said.

She blushed. “Who was it?” she said, after a beat.

Sherlock got up from the carcass finally, putting his samples in a jar. “One of my friends. Victor Trevor.”

“I remember Trevor,” said Molly. “He offered me firewhisky at a party, and pretended to be upset when I took some. I think he liked corrupting me.”

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. “And you?”

Molly rocked on her heels. “My Dad,” she said finally. She looked upwards to the sky. “We should start leaving. It’s going to be dark soon, and the centaurs will not protect us.”

Sherlock got up, stowing away his wand and his jars of samples into his robes.

Molly focused now on her boots as they stepped over the foliage and dead leaves of the forest. “Forbidden forest,” she said allowed. “Grim name.”

“I think they named it in the sixteenth century like that, because they were idiots,” said Sherlock. “And King James had just issued a proclamation against witches.”

“You sound like you were best friends,” Molly said.

“What? That would be impossible – oh, you’re teasing.”

Molly grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you and King James would braid each other’s hair.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The crunch of Molly’s boot corresponded with a Sherlock who had stiffened suddenly, and without warning, gripped her wrist.

“What?” she asked nervously.

“I can hear something.”

“I hope it’s not the beating of your heart,” said Molly. “Or the thestrals, because then I would be terrified. Anything, for that matter –”

“Quiet, Molly.”

She was rambling. Nervously. Stressfully. Anxiously.

Sherlock immediately dragged her behind him – which Molly resented, but not too much. His wand arm extended neatly, his stance perfect and unbreakable. Molly whipped out her own wand and looked behind them.

She heard the whistle of the wind. The trees whispered again, and Molly felt distinctly as if they were watching her. Discussing her.

Gentle, dull thuds against the Forest floor – almost invisible were directly behind her.

She immediately spun around, facing the same spot as Sherlock. From the forest trees, with a deliberateness that annoyed Molly, emerged Firenze.

“Oh, thank God,” she said quietly. She lowered her wand almost immediately.

Sherlock, on the other hand, continued to eye him suspiciously.

“Let it go, Holmes,” said Firenze quietly. “I mean you no harm, and the first thing I told Miss Hooper when she arrived was that she had already had a significant impact on the future for one so otherwise inconsequential.”

Sherlock lowered his wand carefully. “Habits from the war,” he said by way of explanation.

“I guessed as much,” muttered Molly.

“Hooper?” said Firenze. “You should head back. The herd is meeting soon, and I have to attend it.”

“Right. We were on our way,” said Molly, stowing away her wand.

They heard Firenze’s footsteps disappearing into the background slowly.

Molly didn’t say anything, she was looking at her boots again. Her eyes flew upward, as they had a tendency to without warning.

She stumbled a little, and almost automatically, Sherlock’s hand extended to grab her.

Her fingers gripped his palm, her head still downward – and a little, _little_ bit breathlessly, she lifted herself off. They were a little close for comfort then, with his chest barely a few inches away, his eyes impossibly close and far at the same time. He smelled – he smelled of something cool, a little minty, perhaps. With _lemons._ He was looking at her with the untouchable impassivity that almost made her scared, and if it was any other man, she would have said that they might have kissed.

“Um – thank you,” she murmured, to break the silence.

The walk to the Castle just seemed ridiculously far then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOVE REVIEWS


	4. Cantis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I promised a timely update, and for once, I delivered. GUESS WHAT. I'VE EVEN GOT THE LAST CHAPTER WRITTEN, SO NO MORE DELAYS

_Cantis_

_Causes the victim to burst uncontrollably into song._

* * *

 

 _Gently,_ she told herself. She held the scalpel neatly in her finger and carefully made an incision.

Blood leaked, she had noticed. It didn’t burst out, or spurt out – it leaked, gently, almost softly. It simply appeared on cuts without much care for what they were trying to do.

She carefully continued her incision into the chest, as Malfoy continued to observe.

It was in that moment that Sherlock entered, and rather loudly. It was a testament to Molly’s skill that her hand didn’t slip or shake.

“Molly, I –”

“Shh, Holmes,” said Molly.

Sherlock waited patiently. Molly carefully finished her incision, and turned to Sherlock. “What’s up?” she asked, without looking up.

“It better not be something nonsensical, Holmes, Weasley wanted this cleared up by today,” said Malfoy, attention focused on Molly’s careful work.

“Why was Hernandez spending time with someone like Clara Dawson?” asked Holmes, immediately pacing around the body on the table.

“Because she was lonely and friendless,” Molly deadpanned, now focusing on peeling the skin open a little.

“Beyond that,” snorted Holmes.

“Because she wanted some time off from her horrible husband?”

“Don’t be so prosaic, Molly. They don’t fit together – they’re different classes, different kinds of people, even different _blood_ if that nonsense is something to go by.”

Malfoy’s expression was one that was impossibly hard to penetrate.

“Sherlock!” hissed Molly sharply, looking up from her body.

“What?” asked Holmes, oblivious.

“Behave,” she said quietly.

“Oh, right,” said Holmes. “Sorry.”

Molly returned to the body but not before she glanced at Malfoy to see him looking shocked. It was odd for Draco to express much other than sarcasm.

“Once you’re done with this, we can go have something to eat. Speedy’s will be open.”

“Must you do this in front of a dead body?” asked Malfoy.

“Well, the dead body is not invited, so,” Molly said, grinning a little. “Besides, I need only twenty minutes to prove she was poisoned – and then I don’t think she’d have much of an appetite.”

And she looked up at Sherlock. On anyone else, she’d have thought he wanted to – well – to _shag_ her, of all things. But she knew that was hardly possible, so she turned back to the body.

“Brilliant. See you in a bit,” he said.

“Lab?” she asked.

“Yes.”

And he was gone. Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re both perfect for each other,” he said at last.

“What?” she asked. “Not this again, Draco.”

“Flirting in front of me is worse than snogging.”

Molly blushed a deep, undying red. “It wasn’t like that!”

Draco looked at her again, in that odd assessing kind of way. He returned to his clipboard.

She sighed deeply. “It’s beginning to get on my nerves, being around him,” she said quietly. “I’m not being able to get over this _stupid_ crush.”

“Snog him,” said Draco, without looking up from his clipboard.

“Malfoy, be serious.”

“I am,” said Malfoy. “Snog him. Get it over with. For me. If I wanted to give dating advice, I’d be working with Pansy Parkinson.”

“Didn’t you go out with her?”

“Don’t remind me,” said Draco darkly.

Molly’s head wanted to collapse, and she nearly wanted to cry. “I don’t like it any more than you do, you know,” she said. “God, I wish I could do something about this – but he’s everything in one minute, and then cold the next. I _tried_ asking him out, Draco, I did – it flew over his head.”

“Oh, Christ,” muttered Draco, putting his clipboard away. He carefully placed her in a chair, and dropped the scalpel into the tray. “I – I apologise, Molly,” he said stiffly.

Molly nodded gently.

“I think I forgot you’re not actually a teenager,” he said. “Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night? Give Holmes the slip,” he said.

Molly nodded again.

“Astoria will be pleased. She’s been wanting to meet you.”

“I’ve been wanting to meet her,” said Molly. “God knows who saw you after the war and thought it was a good idea to marry you.”

“Hilarious, Hooper,” said Malfoy dryly. He turned to the potion that had been bubbling in a corner, and began dicing some fluxweed grass. “He likes you, Molly,” he said quietly.

She snorted.

“I haven’t actually heard Holmes apologise in all the time I’ve known him,” added Malfoy slightly conversationally.

Molly scoffed.

“He likes you,” repeated Draco. “And one of these days, you’ll find out.”

* * *

 

Molly stared at the fire. Her heart was very heavy, and a little incomprehensible. She wished she could talk to someone, but Draco Malfoy was the only one who knew her secret _and_ the source of her problems.

_Tap._

Of course, it wasn’t true.

_Tap._

No, it was ridiculous.

_Tap, tap, tap._

“Molly, _honestly,_ stop,” said Meena. “Why the _fuck_ are you nervous tapping? It’s getting on _my_ nerves.”

“Sorry,” said Molly apologetically.

“What the hell is on your mind now?” asked Meena. “Is it sex? Please say yes.”

“No,” said Molly.

“I have no idea why I’m friends with you. Out with it, Hooper.”

“Draco – he said something weird,” said Molly.

“You’re now listening to Draco _Malfoy?”_ asked Meena. “Oof. New low.”

“He’s not that bad, actually,” said Molly. “Anyway, what is this, sixth year? We’re beyond this now, Meena.”

“Fine. What did the moron say?”

Molly frowned at her choice of words, but chose to ignore it. “I – well, he said Sherlock likes me.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t sixth year. Does Sherlock _like_ like you, Molly?” she teased.

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. Gotta say, maybe you’re not wrong about Malfoy. He seems to have some sense.”

“You’re not saying you think he’s right!” said Molly, alarmed.

“You’d be blind not to see it, Molly,” said Meena. She returned to the essays she was correcting. “Goodness, these idiots have handed in perfect trash for the third time in a row. God knows what I’m supposed to do with these second years.”

Molly leaned back in her chair. “I’m meeting Draco’s wife tomorrow night,” she said.

“Astoria Greengrass, wasn’t it?” asked Meena.

“One and the same,” Molly said.

“Never knew her very well,” said Meena. “She didn’t seem _horrible._ Smart girl, from what I remember.”

“Yeah,” said Molly. “Draco says she established _The Scryer_ after the war.”

“Hmm,” said Meena. “I like their reporting. It’s a lot better than _The Prophet.”_

“I think everyone lost faith in _The Prophet_ during the war. I’ve heard even _The Quibbler_ has picked up recently.”

“Lovegood must be running that.”

“Scamander, now,” said Meena, shoving a pile of essays and beginning on a new one.

“I’m surprised that it isn’t all naturalism,” Molly said.

“I think she’s given the running to someone else,” said Meena. “Not sure who, though. Greengrass could help her, if they were friends.”

“I think they _are,”_ said Molly. “I feel like I saw Luna in the Malfoy wedding pictures. It was a society affair, after all.”

“Maybe you should ask her, then.” 

Molly returned to her own pile of essays. Maybe she would.

* * *

 

The first thing she noticed about where Malfoy was living was that it was not a manor. It was a large house, but by no means a manor. There were extensive grounds, which weren’t spotlessly maintained by any stretch of the imagination and there was a small wood. She had been expecting lawn sculptures and a perfectly trimmed… well, everything. To her surprise, the lawn looked much more beautiful since it was clumsily maintained – it lent a wildness to the place that made it almost magical. It was a nice home, expensive, but comfortably furnished and tasteful. Not a single white peacock in sight.

“Um,” said Molly, stepping out of the fireplace. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thanks,” said Malfoy. “You were expecting a manor, weren’t you?”

“I’d heard quite a lot about the white peacocks in Malfoy Manor,” said Molly plaintively.

Malfoy was not in his customary dark robes – instead, he was wearing _jeans_ of all things, paired with a button down shirt, which was neatly tucked in. Molly was glad – she hadn’t dressed up, she’d simply taken out one of her nicer dresses and put it on. She hadn’t even bothered with robes.

Draco smiled wryly. “I couldn’t quite return to that place after the war,” he said. “The Dark Lord – he – well, he had used it judiciously, and it was impossible to return without experiencing severe post-traumatic stress.”

“Oh,” said Molly, looking at her shoes.

“This was one of the Greengrass homes – a lesser one, obviously. Astoria converted Malfoy Manor into a shelter for survivors of the war. It’s currently being run as an orphanage for children. Besides, this is a – more comfortable house.”

Molly could see that he was oddly surprised by this – it was clear that Draco Malfoy had spent his childhood in beautiful homes, with beautiful things and beautiful furniture – a house elf cleaning up after him, and everything in between. It must be a change to live in a comfortable home – one where the sofas sank in, or the dining table had scratches. 

“I like this house,” said Molly staunchly. “Never really fancied white peacocks.”

Draco chuckled. “I’ve heard the children like those. Now come on.”

Molly followed him outside the room, which seemed to have been a study. Normally, floo connections were to the living room of the house. Malfoy must have one for his private use as well, and it touched her that he had given her the private one.

As soon as they stepped out, Molly saw a carpeted corridor, with four or five doors that were presumably bedrooms. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes stepped out of one of the doors, closing it neatly behind her. This must be Astoria Greengrass.

“Molly, is it?” she asked pleasantly.

“Yeah,” said Molly, extending an arm. Astoria was dressed in blue, with small white floral patterns. Once again, Molly was struck by how… _comfortable_ they looked.

“It’s really good to finally meet you,” she said.

“You too,” said Molly. “Malfoy told me a lot about you.”

“Oddly enough, I heard a lot about you as well,” said Astoria – and then, horrors of horrors, she winked. Molly must have looked taken aback, because she laughed gently. “I wasn’t a very good Slytherin princess, Molly,” she clarified.

“Oh. Um, _how_ are you married to Draco again?” asked Molly, genuinely baffled.

“Let it go, Hooper,” said Malfoy.

“Come, let’s go downstairs. How is Scorpius doing?” asked Astoria.

“Your son is best friends with Rose Potter,” Molly said. “I’m not entirely sure if he will survive his seven years in Hogwarts.” They turned to the staircase, and walking downwards, Molly noticed a comfortably arranged living room – with well placed arm chairs, and a lovely fireplace. A door led to what might be the dining room, and another to what may be the drawing room.

“Hermione Granger’s daughter _has_ to be a spitfire,” said Astoria.

“I told him not to get into trouble in school,” grumbled Draco from behind. “Nearly had to go and speak to McGonagall last time to revoke some of his privileges.” 

“You filthy little hypocrite!” gasped Molly. “After everything you got up to in school.”

“Molly,” said Draco warningly.

Astoria was grinning at Molly. “I hope you like meatloaf.”

“I love it,” said Molly. “By the way, your paper has some excellent reporters.”

“Thank you,” said Astoria, turning to one of the doors. “I thought we could eat in the kitchen, since there’s only three of us. The dining room is a little ostentatious.”

Goodness. Someone from Slytherin finding something ostentatious.

* * *

 

“How was it?” asked Meena when she was back.

Molly took a breath as she stepped of the fireplace in her office.

“So… _normal,”_ said Molly. She popped off her shoes, and looked at Meena in perfect bewilderment. “War’s really over, isn’t it?” she asked softly.

Meena put down the copy of _The Scryer_ that she was perusing. “Oddly enough, yeah. But there might be another problem coming your way.”

“What could be wrong now?” asked Molly, unzipping her dress.

“You might have caused a widespread panic in the Gryffindor common rooms. Albus and Rose are wondering what you told Scorpius’ parents.”

“Oh dear.”

“And it may have gotten out that you went, which means a lot more trouble.”

“Who could possibly have a problem with me going out for dinner?”

* * *

 

“Molly I have to speak to you,” said Sherlock from the door.

“I’m in the middle of class, Professor Holmes,” hissed Molly, without abandoning the desk an inch.

“It’s urgent,” he said tightly.

Molly sighed. “Continue the dissection. I’ll be back in a second.”

She left her desk to the small office at the back of every greenhouse. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Why were you out dining with _Malfoy?”_ he sneered.

“Um – you – you aren’t serious?” asked Molly.

Sherlock said nothing. Molly folded her hands, prayed to all the Gods for mercy, and continued:

“Because he invited me.”

“Ah.” Sherlock didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “He’s married.”

Molly needed a few minutes to compose herself. “I’m aware.”

“Affairs are frequently the root cause for murder, more often than you would think,” added Sherlock pointedly.

“I _know,_ Holmes,” said Molly.

“Good,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see you later.”

As soon as he opened the door, a dozen or so children scattered in different directions.

“Oh, _Christ,”_ muttered Molly.

* * *

 

She wasn’t sure what the rumour mill was churning out at the moment, but she was absolutely certain it wasn’t good at all. Not only were the students wondering what had happened, Sherlock was simply driving her up a wall these days.

He had taken to giving her an incredibly hard time during classes after that little episode in the greenhouses. For anyone else, this meant a few snide remarks or so. For Sherlock, on the other hand, this meant out and out cruelty – one that Molly could simply not bear.

* * *

 

“Excuse Professor Hooper,” said Holmes darkly. “She’s a little busy as of now.”

The pencil in her hand snapped. She smiled sweetly at the students, who looked oddly as if they had backed up in their desks, expecting an explosion of some sort. “Yes, I’m the one who is busy – not the person who drags me into their extra work,” she said in her softest, gentlest voice.

Holmes looked angry again.

“Turn to page one hundred and fifty two,” said Molly. “Study this theory as of now, we don’t have enough time to test it.”

Holmes scoffed.

“What?” snapped Molly. “What is it? Something stupid? God forbid, I made a mistake?”

“Don’t be _stupid,_ Molly,” sneered Sherlock. “If you were being stupid, I’d have told you.”

“Thank you so _much,”_ said Molly sarcastically.

“Um, professor?” said James Potter in an uncharacteristically meek voice.

“What?” said Molly and Sherlock in unison.

“Um – the bell rang,” he said.

“Dismissed,” said Molly neatly, unaware that James Potter had played her – since there were a good fifteen minutes for the period to end.

As the students began to shuffle out, Molly balled her hands into a fist and turned to Sherlock. “Are you mad at me?” she asked.

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“Then why are you behaving this way!” she exclaimed, stepping forward.

“Anomalies in my behaviour aren’t necessarily clear to me,” he said crisply, and deliberately to annoy her.

“Goddammit, Holmes,” said Molly, stamping her foot and stepping forward. Her eyes were raises to his, his own annoyance with her so obvious. They were too close, but too angry to notice. She was close enough to categorise the different colours that went into making his eyes, and all she could think about was how pissed off she was. “Then _stop_ making a scene during class.”

“If it’s not clear enough, _Hooper,”_ he said. “You’re the one making a scene.”

His eyes flicked down to her lips, and almost automatically Molly looked at his lips. Her breath stopped a little, her heart began racing for reasons unknown and her stomach might have fallen through a void.

And then she did something truly terrible. Well, either she did it, or he did it – but the next thing she knew was that they were kissing.

She had thought Holmes didn’t kiss much, therefore, couldn’t be very good at it. She was wrong.

She could feel the pressure of his lips, as he pushed her downward – his hands cupping her head, carefully cradling her. She could hardly breathe as she felt his hands touch her on the back, balancing her neatly. His tongue flicked on the upper half of her lips, and then the whole situation went from gentle to _aggressive._

Because her hands, previously twined in his hair were nearly scratching his back with some sort of desperate violence. She felt his teeth on her lips – his hands on her hips, as he lifted her onto the desk.

It was in this minute that some of Molly’s common sense came back to her. She pushed herself away from Holmes – _Sherlock?_ her mind questioned briefly. She looked up at him, at his ridiculously incomprehensible eyes.

“I’m – terribly sorry,” she murmured.

She turned to leave.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, looking back at him. “And for the record – um – Draco told me you liked me. I’m not saying he’s right, but um – I, well – do you?”

“Malfoy told you, did he?” asked Holmes sardonically.

“I mean – in passing – I – I was at dinner with Astoria and him – and I – you know what, nevermind –” said Molly.

He held her wrist.

“Smart man,” said Sherlock.

Molly went, if possible, even redder.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

He left her wrist, and then, she might have imagined it – but she was sure he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love them reviews :D


	5. Mimblewimble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO LAST CHAPTER HERE. 
> 
> HOPE YOU LIKE IT, AND THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT!!

_Mimblewimble_

_A curse which prevents certain information from being revealed by the individual upon whom the spell is placed._

* * *

 

Left.

Why did her fingers feel so odd? She felt like peeling off all the hangnails.

Right.

And her face felt odd as well. She rubbed her hands over her nose, wondering if the feeling would leave.

Left.

She wondered if her legs had _always_ felt such a lot like jelly.

Right.

“Could you _stop_ pacing?” asked Malfoy, his pen tracing some paperwork.

“Sorry,” said Molly perfunctorily.

“You aren’t even remotely sorry, Hooper,” said Malfoy rudely.

“You’re right, I’m not,” said Molly.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” asked Draco sourly. “All you said in your floo call was a very squeaky ‘boy trouble!’ and disappeared.”

Molly continued pacing.

“What did he do now? Did he flirt with you? Heaven forbid, did he compliment you?” asked Malfoy, continuing his paperwork.  

Molly’s face was hardly red anymore, it was purple. She seemed to be having trouble breathing. She coughed as she ate the rest of the biscuit, and she looked at Draco imploringly. “He kissed me.”

Malfoy was looking at her scrutinisingly again.

“You are worse than Weasley,” he said.

“You take that back!” Molly hissed.

“I will _not,”_ said Malfoy. “At least Weasley knew what to do when Granger kissed him.”

“Why, what did Weasley do?” asked Molly hurriedly.

“Really, Molly?” asked Malfoy. “You want to take romantic advice from the life of Ronald Weasley.”

Molly made an unintelligible sound that was rather like, “Uh-huh.”

“This is ridiculous,” sighed Malfoy. Molly sat down on one of the stools, pressed her head down on the table and groaned.

The door of the lab opened in that minute, and Astoria walked in, looking beautiful in her professional robes. “Oh, hello,” she said, surprised to see Molly.

“Mmmmmmmmpff,” said Molly.

“Everything alright?” asked Astoria, putting her bag down.

“She’s upset because Sherlock Holmes kissed her,” said Draco boredly.

Molly made a strangled sound from where she was sitting.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” asked Astoria.

“Does it look like a good thing?” asked Draco with another sigh.

* * *

 

By the time she had returned to Hogwarts, she was pacing for wholly different reasons. Molly had to screw up a lot of courage to speak to Sherlock, and a large part of her mind was completely frayed.

She looked around her assigned room – carefully hidden away from the study, and overlooking the greenhouses.

She felt, for the hundredth time, like she was in fourth year again.

The door of her study was closed shut, but she contemplated the woodwork. She was attempting to think of whether or not she should go to meet Sherlock.

That was when the door knocked. Ostensibly, there was someone behind the door to do the knocking, but Molly was certain that the door had felt her thinking and had become sentient – as Hogwarts tended to do.

“Hooper?” came Sherlock’s crisp voice from behind.

_OhnoOhnoOhnoOhno_

“I – uh – I –” she looked around desperately. “ _I’m not here!”_ she squeaked.

Holmes opened the door. “Yes. You’re not here,” he said dryly.

Molly tried to lean on her desk – and looked up at him. “Hi,” she said. Her hand slipped. “What’s up?” she added haphazardly, falling from her leaning position.

“Have I caught you in a bad time?” asked Sherlock.

“No – _no!”_ said Molly.

His head tilted as he regarded her. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“I – I – you – you make me so _nervous!”_ she burst out finally. “Look, I know it’s not your fault, but I’m _constantly_ stressed out by you – I don’t know what to do, and hardly what to say – and you – you – I can _barely_ feel my fingers right now! Is that normal?” she took a deep breath, nearly in tears, and looked at Sherlock again, his face was an odd mixture of amusement and worry, and he stepped forward – trying to calm her down.

She batted his hands away, continuing with the manicness of someone who had truly lost her mind. “I feel like it should be considered a medical condition, don’t you think? I mean – look, I’m doing it again – I just start rambling, and the only reason I could keep it together before was because we stuck to being _not friends._ Rivalries I can understand! I may like pink and kittens, but I like a rivalry. Because where do we go from here? Do we date? Do we fuck? Do we snog? And I feel like I’m in fourth year again, with an idiotic crush which stops me from _breathin-_ mpfff.”

He’d kissed her.

Her mind became completely and blissfully blank. She could feel his fingers on her jawline, his curls under her hands. She couldn’t think of anything – not even her nervousness, or her anxiety. He stopped as suddenly as he started.

“Am I _clear?”_ he asked her forcefully.

“Um.”

“Molly,” said Sherlock. “Do I make myself clear?” he continued.

“Um,” said Molly, her eyes flying upward worriedly, as if categorizing everything that happened in a new way.

“Merlin,” muttered Sherlock.

“Wait, so we fuck?” asked Molly worriedly. “I don’t want to do something stupid.”

“You’re not alone,” said Sherlock. “If you think you haven’t done this, you’d be happy to read some of John’s descriptions of my missing heart.”

“Biologically impossible,” said Molly, looking at his eyes.

“I told him that,” said Sherlock.

Her breathing was hitched. “Besides, most of hormone regulation takes place in the glands – not in the heart,” continued Molly.

“Precisely,” said Sherlock, his breath on her lips. His everything was so close, she could feel all sorts of strange things happen inside her – they said butterflies nested in your stomach when you were in love, but Molly was certain she had cicadas inside.

“And whatever you think is heartache is just – um –” she swallowed. “Hormonal reaction.” His eyes were changing colour, she was certain – as temperamental and changing as the sea that they were inspired by. God had painted him well.

“I know,” he said.

“It feels fantastic,” confessed Molly in a whisper.

“Why do you think I’m here?” said Sherlock before he kissed her again.

* * *

 

When people liked each other, the strangest things tended to happen around them. Cups would fall and shatter – absentminded hearts reacting to absentminded concerns. Red seemed sharper around people in love, as if some primal part of the heart amplified itself in everyone who looked upon them. Green became softer, gentler – just a little kinder, and blue became absurdly bright.

Storms start to make sense. Thunder chats with the rain, lightning wonders. The wind blows with a little more mischief in its footsteps, sounding more and more like an ocean – carrying laughter on its back, for once.

Butter melted in the household whenever someone was in love. And it was with some surprise that the house elves found a lot the butter in puddles one morning – because, because, because – _summer_ was coming.

* * *

 

 _“Lumos,”_ she whispered.

Light reached into the corners of the hallway, curling its toes as it touched everything softly.

The spell was really a godsend, she thought fervently. She didn’t fancy roaming the castle halls with a candle, like a Victorian ghost. For any wandering busybodies, that’s exactly what she would look like – and Hogwarts had a fair share of ridiculous legends without Molly accidentally adding to them.

By the time she reached her destination, she was sure it would be close to twelve at night. _The witching hour,_ as one of her Enid Blyton’s had reminded her. She opened the door gently, softly, and entered the room. Before she could shut the door, it slammed behind her. Her wrists were caught in his hands, pressed to the woodwork which was probably ancient and worth more than six months of her salary.

Sherlock’s hands, however, cared little. Molly found herself losing clothes readily and quickly. She had to come up for air when his lips finally left hers, finding the spot right below her jaw that nearly made her mad.

“Hi,” she said finally.

“Hello,” he said.

“One of these days, we’re going to get caught,” said Molly quietly.

“Almost everyone here has half a brain. I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Sherlock, without letting her go.

“I’m _sure_ Mary and Meena were looking at me funny.”

“You were wearing a jumper with flamingoes on it,” Sherlock pointed out.

“That’s no excuse!” said Molly defensively.

His lips turned upwards into a small smile. The kind reserved for when Molly surprised him.

“I’m sure,” he said.

* * *

 

“Questions?” called Sherlock.

Molly looked around the classroom, hoping to spy unsure faces. Everyone seemed to be in good condition with their independent studies, so she wasn’t too worried about anyone.

A tentative hand went upward.

“Yes, Boot?” asked Holmes.

“Professor Hooper, do you think you could help me with my Puffapods?” she asked.

“What’s wrong with them?” asked Molly.

“They aren’t responding to my fertiliser,” she said quietly.

Sherlock and Molly shared a quick look. “Absolutely,” said Molly. “I suppose you have some time in the seventh period? I’ll see you in Greenhouse three.”

Felicity Boot looked pale, but she nodded. She had become a much better student lately, and Molly wanted to make sure that her depression didn’t come back for her.

Another hand went up. “Weasley?” said Molly.

“Are you both still fighting?” he asked cheekily.

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. “ _Professor_ Hooper and I have professional disagreements over academic disputes regularly.”

Molly rolled her eyes. _That would convince them,_ she thought to herself. And then, _I’d better do something about this._

“Not that it’s any of your business, Weasley, but Professor Holmes and I have found ourselves on opposite ends of the Lunar Transference Theory, which is a _highly_ fought over academic theory,” she said crisply.

“What, like old men in tweed jackets saying things like ‘preposterous!’” snickered James.

Molly smiled. “Too many movies, James,” she said. The boy went red, which she ignored completely. “No, when I say disputed, I mean, there have been entire academic panels that have been derailed, a small duel in nineteen eighty four which caused five serious injuries and luckily, no deaths, as well as a universal ban as a conversation in most famous academic conferences.”

She turned to the board, flicking her wand so that it scribbled the words neatly, _Lunar Transference Theory: A Beginner_ on it.

“I’d suggest you don’t read anything other than that, or you’ll find yourself in a theoretical rabbit hole. Please go to Professor Holmes if you want views that oppose mine.” She added a realistic shudder of revulsion.

Sherlock looked mildly impressed.

“Class dismissed!” called Molly.

* * *

 

“They’re snogging on the side, right?” asked Fred.

“Oh, yeah,” said Sarah Thomas.

“Doubtless,” said James, with a sheepish grin.

“It goes without saying,” said Felicity Boot with a slight smile.

* * *

 

Molly’s feet were up in her greenhouse, her glasses perched on her nose. She was reading in that way it happens sometimes, when it occurs as naturally as speaking – the words had formed an aura around her head, crawling over her hair like many-legged insects, resting on her scalp and falling through to her brain.

If someone was looking, that is.

Sherlock entered, and without disturbing her for a minute, reached for the venomous tentacula samples she had laid out neatly for him. She barely looked up from her book as she handed him a scalpel, a swab, and a slide.

Sherlock paid no attention to her and her words. They were far in the background of whatever new poison he was investigating. Murders made Sherlock seem farther and closer away at the same time. The poisons he would investigate, they tended to tinge his fingers in rainbow.

If someone was looking, that is.

“Quick thinking, the Lunar Transference Theory,” commended Sherlock.

“Thanks,” said Molly, flipping a page.

“Where _do_ you stand on that one?” asked Sherlock as nonchalantly as possible.

“Let’s not,” said Molly, her eyes still glued to her book – but a small, impossible smile on her face. “This might be over before it started if we actually find ourselves on opposite ends of that.”

Sherlock was smirking.

“Professor Hooper, I do wonder.”

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t turn you on,” said Molly, her eyes flicking upward for the briefest minute to look at him.

He regarded her slyly from the side. “You ought not to bite your lips in class, you know,” he said. “If Lunar Transference Theory wasn’t enough.”

Even though Molly didn’t look up from her book, she went a bright, noticeable red.

* * *

 

Molly raised her wand.

“Don’t blow them up, Hooper, that’s the last of my Devil’s Snare samples,” said Draco from the side.

“Yes, mother,” said Molly.

“If I was your mother, you would never have been so molly coddled,” said Draco examining a potion in the light. “And Holmes wouldn’t have been allowed two feet in your direction.”

Molly rolled her eyes.

Sherlock entered the lab at that minute, and Molly sighed. She lowered her wand and looked up at him, willed herself to not turn bright red in his presence.

“Molly, once you’re done with those, I need you to dissect a liver.”

“Lucky me,” said Molly.

“I know,” said Sherlock. “I’m going to Ollivander’s with John, I need some wands analysed.”

“Have fun,” said Molly, returning to the Devil’s Snare.

“And –”

“The blood panel is on the counter there,” said Molly.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock shortly.

The doors swung open, but Molly forced herself to not look after the retreating Sherlock. She was about to perform the spell when Draco asked, “so you’re alright around him?”

“I’m a professional,” said Molly, quickly, looking up from the samples.

Draco was studying her in that way he did sometimes. She had never really been able to place the look, when it occurred to her that it was a _Dad_ stare. It was the watchful gaze of a man who had probably seen through an eight year old’s claim that the antique chess set fell because of the cat. The scrutinising look of someone who knew that there was spilled pumpkin juice on the other side of the sofa cushion, but was kind enough not to say anything.

Molly wriggled uncomfortably.

“Merlin save us,” murmured Draco finally. “You shagged him.”

Molly’s face must have said what she couldn’t, because Draco didn’t wait for her to confirm or deny. “Christ, what a waste of precious time.” He returned to his own set of samples.

“Excuse me?” asked Molly, her voice high.

“All that agonisation, and you _did_ end up sleeping with him,” said Draco, without looking up. “Don’t worry, you didn’t give anything away. It was all him.”

Molly paused. “Some relief.”

And when he looked up, Molly was shocked to see that he was smiling. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Hooper, but I’m a little pleased.”

Molly gaped. “That’s a glowing review.”

He continued doing that smiling thing. “I’m going to tell Astoria, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, wonderful,” muttered Molly. “I suppose it’s your right.”

“It is,” he said.

“It’s been rather like fourth year indeed, hasn’t it?” said Molly. “I had a crush on him in school as well.”

“I would never have guessed,” said Draco. “It’s not been… bad,” he continued quietly. “I… would never have actually seen this – kind of _thing_ – when I was in fourth year.”

Molly waited for him to finish his thought.

“You and I wouldn’t have been friends,” said Draco. He looked mildly nauseated by the fact. “And – my friends – they weren’t well known for being the kind of people to simply – _chat.”_

Molly’s face broke into a grin. Molly tended to break into smiles that took up her face whenever she saw kindness which left her speechless. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he said shortly.

But it was easy to get used to nice things, particularly when they seemed to make so much sense. When people become kinder to each other, they pour colours into one another – gently, the way you would water plants. And everything in the world seems to just become a little more colourful.

* * *

 

And in the beginning, it was all suppressed smiles and quiet words. In the beginning, they were in each other’s office when everything was burning hot and everything was pumping hearts. People could sense the high strung sexual tension and it made everyone sigh involuntarily periodically. People tend to do that when there are people in love in the vicinity.

Molly would find herself blushing red when she noticed Sherlock watching her at the Teacher’s table. Sherlock would find himself at a loss for words in the middle of the lab when she innocently used a little innuendo. In the middle of class, Molly would find herself unable to control herself when Sherlock would begin lecturing – and Sherlock had to adjust his pants at times when Molly would begin scribbling on the board.

And then things shifted from bizarre into comfortable.

They didn’t always find themselves needing each other’s lips. Sometimes, they reached for each other’s arms, legs, the cavities formed in between the knee and the chest. Things slipped from pressure to flow, from stress and anxiety to quiet, unsaid comfort.

And that’s when the problem occurred. Since Molly was petrified of people finding out, she tended to school herself more and more, become more and more professional around Sherlock. Mimicking her, Sherlock was a lot quicker when he spoke to her.

And then people stopped sighing involuntarily. That’s when people started watching.

* * *

 

“Are you sure about this?” hissed Albus. “It’s late and we could get into a lot of trouble for this.”

Considering he was Harry Potter’s son, Albus Potter was ridiculously cautious. He looked around the cupboard they had decided to rendezvous in, and he felt more and more unsure by the second.

“Positive,” whispered Rose. “Anyway, we couldn’t have met until after the rest of the houses have fallen asleep.”

“Damn inconvenient, having you in Ravenclaw,” added Scorpius.

“Damn inconvenient, having you both in Gryffindor. Blockhead house,” said Rose loftily, wrinkling her nose.

“Why are we doing this again, Rose?” asked Albus nervously.

“We want Acromantula Venom, come hell or high water,” said Rose.

“ _Why?”_ moaned Scorpius. 

“I’ve got to test it out for some potions.”

“And there’s no way for us to get it any other way, I suppose,” sighed Scorpius.

“Look, you heard Hagrid. We just have to sneak to his hut a little late in the night, and then to the Forbidden Forest we go. You shouldn’t be too scared – I’ve heard both your fathers did it in their _first year._ I mean – Mum did it with them, too.”

“Dad has a lot of explaining to do,” said Albus, pinching his brow.

“Anyway, I _borrowed_ James’ map,” continued Rose. She unfolded it neatly.

“This is _blank,”_ exclaimed Scorpius. “Rose Potter, if you have us out on a wild goose chase, I will _murder_ you. The _geese_ will be after _you.”_

“Geese? Malfoy, come on, get your act together. Albus. Do something about him.”

Albus looked imploringly at Scorpius.

“If you would _shut up,_ maybe I’d unlock it,” said Rose coldly. “ _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”_

The ink of the map bloomed, tracing lines and patterns.

“So cool,” said Scorpius.

Rose smiled. “I know. I’ve tried to look it up – it comes from a long, long time back. James stole it from Uncle Harry, so I couldn’t quite ask him. Mum said that Uncle Harry’s father and his friends made it. It’s _really_ old.”

“Some big brother James is,” grumbled Albus.

“Hush, Al,” said Rose. “I would kill to know how they did it. But everyone who made it is dead, so –”

“What, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs?” asked Scorpius.

“Mum was a bit cagey about who they were. She said ask Uncle Harry. Which I wouldn’t dare do.”

“Nice to know there are some things you wouldn’t dare do,” said Albus. “Anyway, Peeves is up in the Trophy room. Probably bouncing around, destroying things.”

“Mrs. Norris isn’t around either,” said Scorpius. “Woah, hang on –”

“What?” asked Rose, worried. “Is it Filch?”

“No – it’s something weirder,” frowned Scorpius.

 He pointed at the map.

“Why are Professor Holmes and Professor Hooper in the same room?” he asked, perplexed.

Rose’s eyes widened, and she looked at Albus. Albus snatched the map.

“That’s – uh –” he began.

“ _Bizarre,”_ finished Rose, snatching the map herself.

“They’re too close together,” added Albus. “And they seem to be sleeping. At least, they’re marked on the bed and aren’t moving.”

“That close?” asked Rose, alarmed.

“Is it a bunk bed?” asked Scorpius timidly.

They both turned to look at him with their eyebrows raised. “Are you _eleven,_ Scorp?” asked Rose dangerously. They bickered for a while over the merits and demerits of having Scorpius on a team that was clearly older than him. The conversation subsided again to Professor Holmes and Hooper – and Rose smiled, finally, because they looked good together. Albus and Scorpius snorted – and a few slightly sexist comments were made about the way fourteen year old girls thought.

Eventually, though, it was decided that they had more pressing appointments than whatever the love life between their professors was.

A very dangerously risky walk into the forbidden forest, a close shave with an acromantula colony, and a large pint of venom later, they were pleased with the night’s happenings. Rose’s Ravenclaw friends were curious about everything that happened and there were squeals when it was accidentally revealed that Hooper and Holmes were _so in love._ Rose couldn’t confirm how she knew this, which is why the rumours started flying quite wildly.

Georgia Corner dreamily mentioned that Professor Holmes was incredibly handsome, to which Lisa Barrow derisively responded by saying Professor Holmes was unbearably _rude,_ and Professor Hooper was much nicer and anyway, she was prettier.

By evening, Hogwarts was awash with rumours of how they were completely in love. The names of the people to have discovered it changed with each wild rumour – but confirmed, it was. James Potter raked in his galleons, now that the pool was finished, and everyone was satisfied with the state of affairs.

* * *

 

The staff room was cool during the lunch hour. It was a refuge at the moment, too, since the teachers were served separately during lunch – barring the ones who were in charge of being in the Great Hall to ensure no one killed someone.

Meena walked in and settled down in one of the couches, glanced at Mary and smiled. Mary was reading something, and Meena didn’t care what it was. John nodded to her, chewing on what looked like honey glazed chicken. “Looks good,” said Meena.

Mary was preoccupied with her book. “Mm.”

“By the by,” continued Meena. “Molly and Sherlock are shagging.”

John swallowed his chicken. Irene settled down nonchalantly beside Meena. Rutherford and Thurse, too, were watching, which was interesting.

“Proof?” asked Mary, finally looking up.

“Walked past them making out in a classroom,” said Meena. “They’ve become careless. Door was ajar, not closed.”

“To be fair to them, they were bound to be caught sooner or later,” said Irene. “Even the kids know. Rumours have been going wild for quite some time now.”

“You owe me ten,” added Meena. “Easter.”

“It’s not Easter yet!” said Mary indignantly.

“Nothing happened by Christmas, so by default, I win,” argued Meena.

The conversation continued this way for sometime – at least, until Meena went to pile her plate high with chicken and Molly walked in. She didn’t look at all out of place, not a hair out of her hair tie – her clothes perfectly maintained. She didn’t even have a blush on her face.

A few minutes later, Sherlock showed up. His shirt was untucked, his hair looked as if they had been through a wind tunnel – he was slightly red, and moreover, a little breathless.

Everyone in the staffroom rolled their eyes. John Watson, in particular, was grinning.

* * *

 

Molly slipped toward the kitchen station in the staff room, presumably to help Sherlock make a cup of tea.

“See you tonight?” she asked quietly.

“Nine PM,” said Sherlock.

“Right,” she nodded. “Goodness, all this sneaking is becoming very stressful.”

Mary, who had been sitting on a sofa nearby, flipped a page of her magazine. “We all know,” she announced, without looking away from her magazine.

Molly and Sherlock froze.

“What?” asked Molly tentatively.

“Everybody knows,” deadpanned Meena, while Irene snorted into her coffee.

“Hagrid?” asked Molly desperately.

“Sorry Molly,” said Hagrid, kind enough to look a little embarrassed.

“As if Sherlock would voluntarily make tea,” said John, picking up his stack of unchecked essays.

“Um,” said Molly. “Okay then.”

Before she could say anything, Sherlock had slipped his hand into hers experimentally. She knew it was an experiment, because Sherlock would never do that otherwise.

“We are in _school!”_

“Put that away at once, Holmes.”

“Think of the _children.”_

And Molly grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: love them reviews!!

**Author's Note:**

> I love reviews okay, please always remember that.


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